Falling Into Cracks
by Lin7 M12i
Summary: Everyone makes mistakes. Should children pay for the crimes of their fathers? Can you learn from the mistakes of others? What do the wrong assumptions lead to? Magic and Madness. Post-GoF AU.
1. The Fallen

**_Author's Note: _**I don't own Harry Potter.

**Falling Into Cracks**

The interesting thing about the world is that it's so busy that people always forget things. Everyone is caught up in his or her own problems, ignorant or just ignoring the little problems that other people might be having. One man is trying to fuck a rich woman, another man is killing his brother, a woman cradles her child while she tearfully watches the afternoon soap operas, another woman ties a man up and rapes him. The millions of possibilities that each individual person can be consumed in make it so easy to forget little incidents - like that you haven't seen your neighbor in two weeks, and only discover he's dead after a month. Everyone is lost within each of our own little worlds, where life revolves around our own problems and us. Occasionally we take a quick peek into each other's worlds, but it doesn't mean that we help each other, unless our wants and needs overlap. After awhile, the overlap of various desires makes it so that things get forgotten, and then cracks open up in the universe of worlds that we separate ourselves within.

A man looks at his new body in the mirror, remembering a time when he slipped through the cracks.

He remembers a time when he was just Tom Riddle, a boy with nothing but his name. A name left by a woman who died on the steps, leaving a child with his father's name. He had the misfortune to be born during a time of turmoil and poverty, which meant that even as a baby his chances for adoption were low. The orphanage itself wasn't a terrible place, but even children can be cruel people (even unintentionally), and they sometimes do cruel things to each other. They may not have known better, never having someone to instruct them in the difference between right and wrong - but that doesn't mean that they weren't wrong. It just means that there was never anyone to tell them that they were wrong. The state of being unaware of your own negative behavior is no excuse for the negative behavior.

He can remember a little bit of happiness, in the ward with the younger kids. But many the older kids had been made hard by the world. For some of them, the parents were gone for any number of reasons, but they could remember dreams of home – good dreams, bad dreams, and all sorts of in between dreams. Some of the other kids were those unfortunate enough to be left behind in the wake of the Great War, and they had never known any home but the orphanage and the occasional foster family. Enough of the kids there were full of hate, rage, and pain; all of it at the world and their situation, and all of it misdirected at making everyone as miserable as they were.

But that's making excuses for them.

Excuses can't change what was done. There were things done by both sides. They mocked and tortured him, and he – well, he had magic, and the powerful emotions to control it. Tom knows that he allowed a group of kids to shape him into the person he is today. He knows that there are no excuses for what he has done since then. No excuses for all of the killings and the torture. The rapes he committed and the pillaging he has done. He knows there is no forgiveness for him.

A voice echoes in the dimly lit study, "Dumbledore would claim that there is forgiveness for everything, but no one would agree with him. He's the only one who remembers that scared little boy anymore." Tom leaves the stinger off the statement. 'I remember him too.' He knows why there isn't anyone else to remember, because he killed all of the others. Then he started killing people with only spider-silk relationships to them. Then he found friends with their own grudges and agendas, and it kept escalating. Eventually it was a war against the world and everything.

It didn't mean anything to him anymore. Inside, he truly hopes that it used to mean something. It never brought him any peace though. It brought him a little bit of satisfaction, a little bit of vindication, and a feeling of emptiness.

Perhaps it was when people started dying for the war that it didn't mean anything anymore. You killed one of ours, we killed one of yours. You killed my brother - I killed your son. Mothers for daughters, sisters for brothers, children for parents and vice-versa, rinse & repeat, etcetera, etc, end of report…

Eventually it became circular logic. They were fighting for people who died. The dead people had been fighting for people who died. The killers were fighting because someone died.

At some point, a long time ago, someone got pissed off and threw a curse, and the whole war descended from that mistake. It doesn't matter which side threw the first curse, and it's probably lost to the ages. It wasn't about saving something; it was about **us** vs. **them**. There are no innocent bystanders, because if you aren't fighting then you simply have yet to join a side.

The third side is always an option. The third side is to be dead.

Tom Riddle has survived, leading his own "us" and surviving for years. "Us" has grown and shrunk through the ages, for any number of reasons. People once followed him because he was passionate and devoted, and they believed in what he could do. He had ideals and goals. He had many dreams, dreams that he never told anyone about.

Things have changed over the years.

Now Tom Riddle has people that will follow him into the mouths of death itself. They say they love him or his ideals, but no one has asked him about his ideals in a long time, and it has been almost as long since he woke up next to a warm body. Tom doesn't even try to figure out what the goals are. The idea that they're killing for the sake of killing makes him want to start drinking heavily. There are many reasons why they keep fighting, but most of them can come back to revenge and jealousy.

Wrath and envy.

Both emotions are things that Tom Riddle knows very well.

In fact, hate and envy comprise a good portion of what drove him to become the person that he is today. They once burned hot and bright, they kept him up for so many long nights. It wasn't about the grades, it was the knowledge that he was better than the others. The knowledge that he could destroy them piece by piece and no one would be the wiser.

Despite all of that, he is tired.

Tom Riddle's flames of passion dimmed a long time ago.

There really isn't a quest for redemption left for Tom Riddle. Atonement for his sins is so far out of reach that it might take him a century to get even a little bit of atonement done. Regret isn't enough, forgiveness is impossible, and redeeming himself is a joke. He doesn't know how seek redemption for his crimes. Maybe there is redemption in death. Tom might have been looking for death all this time. He knows that he could die by the hand of Harry James Potter, but not when or how.

He knows why though – or at least a little bit of why Harry James Potter should want to kill him.

Of course, by that same logic, he could kill Harry James Potter and then live on forever.

Tom Riddle has a little chuckle.

The idea of living forever scares Tom Riddle almost as much as death. Living forever with only your memories and sins to keep you company. Friends and followers are fleeting, and his friends died long ago. Remembering his current followers, Tom Riddle is disturbed. Many of them are the children of his former friends. Their parents have passed on, and the children are now Tom's children. His very own children to love and cherish, but he cannot save from making their own mistakes. If he could, he would scream and rage at them about making the same mistakes as he did, as their parents did.

Tom will not desecrate the memory of those who he respected. Not even those who may have been undeserving of his respect.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

The first Death Eaters were a close-knit group of friends, and they had some kind of purpose. They were young, and ambitious for any number of things, but they were not evil. It was easy to mistake their causal acceptance of using each other for something else, but they simply accepted that they weren't the best at everything. They were a small group of people who saw that they could help each other. The group was greater than the sum of its parts. They were a powerful clique in Hogwarts; a small group of charismatic young men with connections in and out of the school. The teachers were impressed with their skills with mind, cauldron, tongue, and wand. Outside of the school, they were businessmen and artisans, politicians and cousins, and occasionally they were even criminals. Watching each other's back was something that they did well, and every one always had a perfectly reasonable alibi or witness. They talked, fought, stole, cheated, and won with each other. Some day they would torture and kill with each other.

Each of them had one day, a single time between sunrises, when they died with each other. Sometimes in another's arms, sometimes just in their hearts, but they always died with their friends, because none of them ever had anything else at the end.

They would get drunk and confess their sins and obsessions to each other, learning things that would never be repeated in the company of others, only to discover how much they had in common. In such a cunning house, most were afraid to have close friends, but the trust that the Death Eaters had, it was what made them so powerful. The ability to know what they wanted, and know that someone would always be there, watching their backs. They were all driven hard - to fight, to protect, to love, to succeed, to live, to discover, and at the end…to control, to destroy, to kill.

It seemed so easy to reach out and grab the world by the horns.

Things were on a much smaller scale back then. It wasn't so much a war as it was a struggle to gain power. They helped each other on the side, more like a secret society than a combined unit. While a few rose in political power, they all spent their time dabbling in collections of older types of magic – many of these same magics are now classified as dark arts by the Ministry. The magic was so alive back then, it felt good. They found strange and beautiful things, and made even more beautiful things. All of it for power.

Power for its own sake was so amazing. Power to defeat death. Power to control the masses. Power to destroy the masses. Even power to destroy the world.

Some of the Death Eaters left England to seek different types of magic. At a young age, they compiled their knowledge of obscure spells and techniques into their own little codex of magic, which was eventually published anonymously – and immediately banned by the ministry. Those who had taken small jobs at the ministry, or who were heirs to family fortunes, laughed at the fools and let the ban pass unfettered. Forbidden fruit tastes much sweeter to the soul, no matter its flavor in the mouth.

Eventually, they all came full circle in the world, and even the roaming Tom Riddle returned to England, after over a decade spent delving into the darkest magic. Trying to exorcise his own demons only made him tired, so he returned to help his friends, only to discover that the Death Eaters had become far less interested in spells and complex magic, and far more interested in politics and little games. Life had been cruel to them, and they would leave their mark by making someone else suffer. Love was dead, life was unfulfilling, and their high hopes and dreams were dirtied by years spent acquainting themselves fully with the pain of being human.

They wanted to eat death, but in doing so had been consumed by the pain of life.

The debate against Muggleborns and Half Bloods was hitting its peak as the post-World War II baby boom led to increasing enrollment in most magical schools. The Death Eaters fell on the side of the Purebloods, the family history they knew and believed in. Avery, Rosier, and Lestrange were all tangled into it deep. Tom Riddle remembers that it was unlikely that Lestrange really cared, apparently after his wife's death he had become a cruel man, with nothing in the world to care for. His sons, who came from what would be their mother's deathbed, became sadistic, hard, and cruel, because their father was sadistic, hard, and cruel to them.

Rosier really believed in the cause, but he wasn't the charismatic leader they needed. He was just another pureblood fanatic that had managed to pick up the money they needed. Avery was devoted to the cause, but he wasn't too desperate about it. The others were indifferent, but besides Tom, they were all Purebloods. And so, Tom Riddle united the jaded, tired, and angry men that the Death Eaters had become into a group of pureblood fanatics. The pureblood families that were favorable joined up easily. Word got around that he would accept powerful half bloods that believed in the cause. Eventually people who wanted knowledge and power started coming to the banner.

The new blood reveled in the knowledge of the dark arts that had consumed Tom Riddle and the others so many years ago. The variety of political tricks to devise and games they could play made them hungry for more. The political clout they now carried was only enough for a short period. Then they started using intimidation and bribery, becoming more akin to thugs than the pure aristocrats they professed to be. People suspected, but none could truly be sure. Anyone who had ever heard the name "Death Eater" whispered tried to forget it, to forget about the smirking faces and glittering eyes from Hogwarts.

If it was any of the Death Eaters, it was probably Lestrange who started the killing and cursing; he was always the most emotional about everything. But no one knows who started the hating. The hate was born of jealousy and rage. Half bloods and muggleborns had gained a lot of recognition after Grindelwald, because they were to be pitied. Some people resented this, but the government seemed to be encouraging it, putting people in power regardless of blood.

The hate had fallen into public domain.

The last chance for the safety of the wizarding world was when Tom Riddle applied for the Defense job at Hogwarts a second time. Hogwarts was home. Even though Tom had become a changed creature, he was still the best resource on the Dark Arts in England. Hogwarts would be safer for children, especially if he had the powers to defend the castle at his fingertips. He could teach them of his own mistakes and what the Dark Arts really meant. Teach them to live their lives to the fullest and not become consumed by the hate and rage that had consumed him.

When the only home Tom Riddle had ever loved rejected him, there was no longer any reason not to rise with the wave to wipe away the old.

They never thought about what would happen if they actually won. They made their little toasts to what they would do when they won, but the fighting wasn't really about winning. It was about learning, pain, anger, jealousy, and death. All of which floated at the tips of their wands.

But when Death Eaters started dying too, it became about vengeance. Revenge for people that were comrades-in-arms. Not necessarily friends, just comrades. There were only a few bonds of friendship here and there, people meeting and discovering others that are similar. Revenge for fathers and mothers. Revenge for brothers and sisters. Revenge for husbands, wives, and lovers. Revenge for children, born and unborn.

Right and wrong only went so far. Eventually, they meant nothing. Was it right that she should die by their hands? Was it wrong that he should die by my hands?

The deciding coin was flipped. It flew up into the air, spinning and shining. Sometimes the light on one side, while the other gleamed with the darkness. Other times it was undecided, both sides tilted and swirling with the light and the darkness. The answer was lost in the madness. The coin, trampled and broken from the fighting over it, could not give a clear answer.

Light and dark meant absolutely nothing. The light drives away shadows, but it also makes the shadows that do exist seem so much deeper by comparison. It makes the eyes blind to see in the darkness even a little bit. The Darkness is the absence of light, but darkness is also so many shades of weaker light. The darkness that consumes the light is driven to madness incarnate, and the light that destroys the dark is left covered with blood in the end.

For all of the speeches that Dumbledore made, it didn't change the fact that Death Eaters died by the hands of his order. When they retreated, upon the arrival of the Aurors, they had only delayed the inevitable. Sometimes it meant that they had left people in positions where they were only prepared to die. It was like tying a string to the trigger, gluing the gun to a table, cocking the weapon, tying the string to the doorknob, and then leaving. They always shut the door behind them, to lock the darkness inside.

Sometimes it was closer to slitting their throats and leaving them to bleed out.

Never watched them die, never had to take the blame for the death.

They never had to see those bodies. They left knowing only that they had done the greater good. The Lestrange Brothers discovered their father in one of those positions. Rodolphus and Rabastan both swore to never stop fighting. They had hated their father, but his death still enraged them. His face was twisted into an insane grin that enraged his children. He knew that his death belonged to his children, so he smiled when it was taken from them, just like their mother was taken from him.

Others were less noble; Lucius left his wife to care for the businesses and occupied himself with raping and killing. The feeling of power brought by their deeds made it easy to continue. Travers, Mulciber, Dolohov, Rosier… as the ranks of the Death Eaters grew, they magnified their resentment and became crueler.

Macnair hated the world that had let his family die. Tom Riddle remembered watching Macnair screaming as he stood above the bodies, ravaged by a battle between Aurors and a group of creatures driven in by the Order of the Phoenix. The battle was a mistake, the creatures were simply suspected of alliance with Tom Riddle.

Tom knows that Snape had fed the false information to the Order, but he will not tell Macnair. It was a mistake on both sides, and no one can claim full responsibility.

Snape. He was a man with many similarities to Tom Riddle, but who sensationalized his own suffering, making himself into a supporter of the cause before he realized what it meant. Snape was smarter than the average grunt, but possessed little of the drive that consumed many of the others. Tom watched as Snape went to Dumbledore in fear, but returned confident of his position in the Death Eaters.

Snape would survive, because that is how he lived his life. He childishly wanted to be better than others, so he would hoard knowledge and work hard on his skills; but he had little of the natural charisma to make him a leader. In this war, he had become a lone force with powerful allies on both sides. He was a mercenary for his own survival, and he learned how to do little else. Snape was a sniveling coward, whose greatest desire was to sit on the throne without making the orders.

Nott was one of the few that he saw regularly during his tenure at Borgin and Burkes. His wife had died as a result of their home collapsing on her. When the wreckage was pulled off of her, she was curled up on top of her infant son, her body frozen in place so she could support the wreckage. The house wards were under assault by the Order combined with Aurors for hours. A "Death Eater Safehouse", it was called. The cries for help from within were ignored, only the tortured screams of a criminal trying to escape punishment. The Death Eaters never met at any of the members' homes though, aware of the risks that posed to their wives and children. The apology and payoff by the Crouch administration only enraged the widower more.

Nott is tired now. The rage has kept a burning flame in his heart far longer then any of the others. He might have left, before that, but now there is only his son. His son who has a simpler view of the world, where black and white is a separate set of things that don't blur at the edges. Nott couldn't teach his son to live, not while he had lost himself in an unforgiving, godless world. Nott is old, and he will die for the cause, because he is afraid to die on a bed. His son will fight on – for a father who could never quite explain why the sky is blue and the stars shine, but who was far too human in a world gone mad.

Bellatrix started to slip after her fifth miscarriage. The one that was supposed to finally work out, so she could have a child to save from becoming like herself or her husband. She lost at least one baby due to her husband's actions, and it was known among the Death Eaters that there was no love lost in the family. Rodolphus would rape her just like any of the muggle girls that died in their attacks. She probably would have killed him, but her marriage contract bound her against that.

She had always wanted someone to love her more than anything. Her sisters had left her alone, tied up in their own marriages and dreams. Her cousin was firmly entrenched in the light, and would sooner spit on her then speak with her. Her parents were dead, and they were always busy in politics even when they were alive. So she kept trying to have a child to cherish and care for, the way that she never had been. The fifth time she got pregnant, she managed to secure Rodolphus in an agreement to leave her alone for the length of the pregnancy. In the fifth month of her pregnancy, the Aurors stormed their home in a raid. She was surprised, expecting only Rodolphus and his brother, since most people detested the family. Instead, it was a group of Aurors led by the Longbottoms; they stunned her repeatedly before bringing her in for questioning.

They drug her in, throwing her into questioning before giving a medical examination. The Longbottoms had been hearing horror stories about the name Lestrange since the war began, so, never for a second questioning that the wife would be in just as deep, they immediately began a painful interrogation. Crouch's policies didn't help the woman, authorizing the use of Unforgiveables in questioning, and then encouraging the use of Veritaserum if necessary.

Ironically, it was Sirius who saved her from the brutal questioning, noticing that she looked different then usual. One simple question revealed the full extent of the crime committed by the Aurors. The Longbottoms were horrified to discover what they had done, and they tearfully tried to offer compensation of some kind. Bellatrix laughed them off in a dead voice. She told them that they had taken her last hope from her, and that some day she would repay their kindness. Sirius managed to get her out, "a favor to an inconsolable woman," he called it. She wandered through Diagon Alley to the Leaky Cauldron, where she was ejected for disorderly conduct before taking a single drink.

Bellatrix returned to the Death Eaters, childless and broken. She didn't need a divination reading to know that she wasn't meant to have children. She snapped after that, becoming one of the most sadistic Death Eaters. Narcissa could only watch in horror, as her beautiful sister became a creature rapidly descending into madness. Narcissa had known that both of them were entering into loveless marriages, but what her sister was becoming signaled of something more sinister, something darker and more painful.

Tom Riddle knows why she went to the Longbottoms after his downfall, that attack had been planned for months preceding it. Bellatrix wanted them to suffer for her loss. When Tom discovered that there was a prophecy that may have applied to their son, he laughed, since that only made it so much sweeter to give Bellatrix the job. He didn't mention the prophecy; it was irrelevant to her job.

An eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, sanity for sanity.

The Death Eaters are all damned for their crimes, and they have nothing left but to keep fighting. They are screaming their names at the world, because they don't have anything except pain, death, and suffering in their minds. They are undone by their actions, so there is only death awaiting them at the end of the tunnel.

They were all people who lived their lives to the extremes, and when it all went to hell they threw themselves into the cause to drown out their sorrows. It was like a small fire that had been barely burning was built into a towering bonfire of dreams. Their sorrows fuelled the flames and kept it going as they lost people, their rage kept it burning for the next generation. The fire would burn down eventually. Perhaps at the end of the night there would be something left in the ashes that had been cleansed by the flames.

Tom knows that wasn't very accurate. He suspects that anything left would be blackened and burnt, skin peeling off as it tried to heal from the pain of the flames.

At the end of the day, Tom Riddle knows why the Death Eaters existed. It was so that all of these people could wake up in the morning and have something to do that they could understand. Going back to a life without these easy outlets for pain and suffering would drive them to St. Mungo's. They needed to change, to find something new to fight for and to hold close to their hearts. But when they were given that chance, to be free, they were lost or captured.

Tom Riddle knows why they had returned after so many years of silence. It was because the break did little to dull their pain. They found simple escapes that would stave off the madness they wrestled with a little, but they knew that they couldn't hold it together forever. The world cup proved that there was something that called them back to the escapades. Something that tied them together, and probably ties their children to the same cause.

They were fighting today simply because they fought the day before. Years had passed, but there had been no rebirth for them, no new dawn of the day. Fighting because their families fought this war, because they didn't feel like they had power over anything without this war. They didn't know how to do anything else except fight this war. Not even Tom Riddle can think of a good reason why he would wake up in the morning and return to leading them.

Maybe it was a debt of honor to those who had died before them in the cause. Or maybe it was faith that they would succeed. Tom's reason for fighting had faded in the light of the fire and simply became…

"I fight to keep the fire burning."

Was that it?

"I fight because I am the flame, and I will burn eternally."

Fear of death?

"I fight…to fight."

Fighting for the fight?

"I fight to save those who would fight with me."

Fighting for the others?

"I fight because there is still something to fight against."

For his enemies?

"I fight because my crimes allow for nothing else."

Nothing sounds quite right.

Tom Riddle calms his mind for a minute, releasing himself from drowning in his memories of sorrow and pain. At the back of his mind he discovers something new.

Harry James Potter.

And Tom finds something else there. _A reason to fight_.

"I fight…to teach the world to understand the darkness within."

In Harry Potter, he found the same darkness from his own youth. The same cracks that he remembered falling into, he saw before Harry Potter.

"I fight, because it is the only way I can teach."

Tom Riddle knows that the light could only teach so much about the dark. He can look in the mirror and see what the darkness could bring. But he also knows that with light, there is darkness.

Tom Riddle was too late to save his own children from making the same mistakes that he had, but maybe he could save the children of someone else. Maybe then they wouldn't have to wake up in the morning and worry quite so much. He looked at his hands, they looked more human then they had in many years, all thanks to the blood of Harry Potter. Maybe he could save a boy, one who shared so much of the same rage. In doing so, would he destroy himself? What purpose would it serve? Maybe the Prophecy had been fulfilled by his temporary vanquishing…was it truly going to be that easy to cheat Fate?

Harry Potter had given Tom Riddle a little bit of humanity back. Tom gave Harry a little piece of his soul. Two boys tortured by the places they had been left by an uncaring society. One had grown into a jaded, hate-filled man. The other was still growing up. If the opportunity came to lead Harry Potter without jeopardizing Tom's own plans, then he would guide him. Tom might take a little step towards redemption, because it is all he can do for the boy that he sees as a mirror of himself.

The clock strikes the midnight hour. Tom Riddle files those thoughts away in his mind, preparing to work on his plans.

But before anything else, he sends one thought to a sleeping Harry Potter. A thought that Tom knows was the truth, no matter what anyone says.

"My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I am your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."


	2. The First Day of the End of Your Life

**_Author Note:_** I don't own Harry Potter.

**The First Day of the End of Your Life**

End of Fourth Year

_Seven days from Privet Drive _

_~ Ask Your Doctor ~_

A ceiling. Always that ceiling. Harry had been at school for four years now, and that ceiling was uncomfortably familiar to him. It was more comforting than the ceiling of the dorms, and anywhere was more comforting then his stark room at Privet Drive. It was so blank though. Madame Pomfrey always joked around about putting his name over one of the beds (she did it with an exasperated voice); but a real kicker would be decorating the ceiling. It would add a sense of home to this sterile environment. Moving his head from side to side, Harry noticed the empty hospital wing. He rarely had company overnight; most injuries were just little schoolyard scuffles that went wrong, or a little bit of spell reversal. Ron and Hermione didn't spend much time here as patients – well, except when one of their escapades went wrong.

The night of the tournament final wasn't an escapade like the others. He had met Voldemort alone before, with Professor Quirrell and Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. Never before had he felt quite like this last time though. Until the wands connected, he was sure that he would die that night. After that it was a mad dash to one possible escape option and keeping a mad promise to the ghost of a classmate. Once he got back, it was timing that saved him from Crouch Jr. It was almost as if Fate had a hand in it.

His dreams after taking the potion did nothing to help. It was like being himself, but not himself. Certainly places he had never been, people he had never met, and things he had never done. But some of it was familiar. Orphaned, alone, desperate; it was a dream about running as hard as he could, but never making it out. Harry could understand that. But there was fighting in his dream, and that was something Harry had never done. Fought for himself. He would fight for Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, hell – he would fight for Dudley. But to fight solely for himself…

Harry's eyes went wide as the combined weight of recent events falling onto his head. He was trapped. Voldemort was back. Voldemort tried to kill Harry Potter. The Death Eaters were back. A fluke saved him the first time. Luck and fear saved him a second time. Third time's the charm.

It was funny, school was supposed to be _safe_, but it had never been safe. The teachers had spent more time berating him for saving himself then they had spent saving him. Snape, McGonagall, and Dumbledore couldn't make up for Quirrell, Lockhart, and Crouch. Someone – or something - was always trying to do him in at school. The funny thing was that something always popped up to intervene on his behalf. Luck? Chance? Divine Intervention? Professor Trelawney might know something. There might be some kind of divination at work here, and she just kept predicting his death far too early.

A giggle erupted from Harry's lips. Even if there was nothing written in the stars, he was still a dead man walking at this point. Voldemort didn't exactly look interested in a truce – or even a non-aggression pact – at this point in the game. Harry, however, wishes that he could just quit. The sound of shoes on the infirmary floor interrupted his depressed musings. Madame Pomfrey approached him. It was odd, watching her as she approached his bed. He was going to die, and his "doctor" still worked so hard to keep him alive.

"Mister Potter, how are you feeling this morning?" Her no nonsense tone always brought a smile to his face

He laughed. "Well, I'm going to die soon," a maniacal grin appeared on his face, "So I'm feeling pretty damn good right now." Turning his maddened eyes to the Mediwitch, he grinned at her shocked expression. "How are you on this beautiful morning?"

Madame Pomfrey's expression turned from shocked to annoyed, and she slapped him on the arm. "Mister Potter, you should be less melodramatic. You have gotten worse injuries from –"

"I meant that Voldemort is going to kill me."

Madame Pomfrey's hand flew to her mouth, shocked by the flat statement.

"I give it two years," Harry hesitated, "Maybe even three if I'm lucky."

Pomfrey's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. She stood there watching Harry with tears forming in her eyes for a moment, and then shook herself, crinkling her brow into a stern face. Drawing herself up, she began swishing, flicking, jabbing, and twitching her wand every which way around his body. Murmuring soft incantations, she moved up and down his bed in a ritualistic manner.

Harry watched her with shining eyes, feeling the spells wash over his body as she continued to look for some result. He had never watched Madame Pomfrey while she worked; being that he was quite often too preoccupied with the pain he was in to really notice the care he received. The woman was industrious in her movements, too practiced to be anything less then perfect. Economy of movement warred with her need to be precise, and casting speed was sacrificed for clarity of spellwork. What did he know about her? She was a school nurse. She looked younger than McGonagall, but must be older than Snape. Just this year, he had heard rumors that she was having an illicit affair with a student – that student was, of course, Harry Potter – but it proved to be false. She was an excellent Mediwitch, with an impressive repertoire of spells – proven simply by the past five minutes of continuous casting, if nothing else. Where had she learned her skills?

His green eyes glowing from the magic coursing through his system, Harry surprised her by speaking, "Madame Pomfrey," his soft voice made her jump. Eyes fading as her magic left him, Harry watched her regain a semblance of confidence before speaking again. "What do you do?" he gestured around the wing, "Other then this?"

Her mouth dropped open. Madame Pomfrey watched Harry with a shocked expression on her face. Her eyes were wide, starting to glisten with tears as she read the boy's body language. If Voldemort walked into the room at that moment, Harry would lie on his bed and die. She saw a deep loneliness within him, as though he was waiting to die – and he believed he would die alone. Steeling her will, Poppy sat on the bed next to his and watched him. Wiping the tears from her eyes took a moment, and then she spoke, "I read, Mr. Potter."

Her eyes fell to the floor, and she started to become lost in thought, but was interrupted by Harry's voice. "What?" he rasped out. Seeing her puzzled expression, Harry coughed to clear his throat, "What do you read? Where do you read it?"

Smiling, Madame Pomfrey raised her eyes to the boy – her patient – on the bed. "I read everything." Her eyes went far away, looking through him as she traveled to the past, "Muggle novels, spell books, guides, some medical texts." Frowning, she thought for a moment more, "I suppose I mostly read fiction, but I'll read a horror story every so often. Fantasy and science fiction hit a little bit close to home for me. I could read a history text if I wanted goblin wars and powerful wizards." She refocused her eyes on Harry, as though inspecting him for some form of duplicity. Shrugging, she continued, "For the school year I live in my rooms here. Other then that…" she looked away from him, a painful expression on her face, "I have a small home, but it's so quiet there that I usually work a lot during the summer." Shaking her head, she spoke to the floor now, "There are a few magical communities out in the countryside, they always need some help for the summer. A little bit of veterinary knowledge goes a long way when you're a healer."

Silence settled between the two. It seemed strange to Harry that even after four years at school, that he barely knew anyone. The list of people that he considered close friends was depressingly short, and the list of friendly acquaintances wasn't much better. At least a week per year was spent in the hospital wing, and he had never asked Madame Pomfrey about herself until today. Ron and Hermione were his only really close friends; Hagrid was more of a good acquaintance – Harry loved the half-giant, but didn't spend much time talking to him very much. Out of his other roommates, Neville was the only one that Harry spoke to regularly. The other Weasleys – Ginny, Fred, and George – were at about the same level. Harry smiled at that, he had faced Tom Riddle with Ginny lying at his feet, but he had never gone out of his way to even ask how she was feeling _after_ the battle was over.

Frowning, Harry thought about the only other person he spoke to regularly and came up wanting. Draco Malfoy was, for all intents and purposes, one of Harry's closest friends just by the amount of time they spent together. It wasn't like Harry actively sought the git out, but between classes and meetings in the hallways, Harry was seeing Malfoy almost as much as he saw Ron and Hermione. For that matter, Harry would bet that he'd spent more hours with Snape then he had ever considered even talking with McGonagall. What was his head of house for? It wasn't like she called house meetings or organized anything.

Shaking his head, filing all of those thoughts onto a "to-do list", Harry looked back at the Mediwitch. While Harry was wandering down memory lane, Madame Pomfrey had taken the opportunity to bustle around the ward and clean things up a little bit. She flicked her wand and replaced sheets, levitated objects, and animated a few beds to make themselves better. It was busywork. Harry remembered spending hours in primary school devising methods of doing busywork, the Dursleys were proud advocates of the _'Idle hands are the devil's workshop'_ school of thought – at least for him. A wry smile found its way to his face, and Harry let his voice carry through the ward. "Does that help?"

Turning her head, Pomfrey allowed the dirty sheets to float to the dumbwaiter. "Does what help?"

"The work," he stated, before elaborating, "Does it help distract you from the loneliness."

Looking into the eyes of her charge, she saw a look of understanding. She nodded, not bothering to speak her answer. There was something between the two of them, a loneliness that was mutually understood. She tried to mother him whenever he showed up in her ward, while he would always be polite and try to escape at the earliest possible opportunity. It was a little game that they played, even though they were both completely serious in their roles.

Throughout the school year, she was kept entertained by the minor problems that showed up throughout the year, but she always waited for _'the big ones'_. The big events of the year, which was the nickname she gave to the ones that inevitably ended with the most interesting injuries in her ward. Since she had taken the job, only Gryffindors or Slytherins had held the title – usually from conflict with each other – and there had been a collection of events in the past six years that revolved around the Weasley twins and Potter. Perhaps that made her a bit of a sadist, but healing magic was her passion. So many of the little things that came through her office were potions accidents and spell damage. Usually it was boring spell damage, because the students never picked up any _really_ interesting spells until seventh-year, when they knew enough to either not use them, or didn't bring them to her office.

Harry rose from his bed, stretching his protesting muscles out as he placed his glasses on his face. Despite the residual ache in his body, he knew that there wasn't anything overly threatening. "Mr. Potter-"

"Please Madame Pomfrey," he smirked, "I think we know each other well enough for you to use my first name."

Huffing, she tapped her foot in a staccato pattern on the floor. "Mr. Potter. As my patient, it may behoove you to not dictate terms," she smiled, no malice in her voice, "Where do you think you're going?"

Scratching his head, Harry thought for a moment. "I'm feeling pretty good, I was thinking that maybe I could go out and stretch my legs." He smiled, "Maybe even return to school before it's out this year."

A smirk touched her lips, amused at the turn of events. "Why Mr. Potter, I'm sorry that you feel that way." A glint appeared in her eye, betraying the duplicity of her comfort, "However, it appears that as a tournament champion, you were exempted from all end-of-term exams." The smirk turned into a full-on grin, "Such a pity, but it would do no good to endanger your health."

Sighing, Harry rubbed his chin speculatively. The lack of beard left Madame Pomfrey unimpressed at his distinguished expression, and she continued the quick beat of her foot – alternating to the other foot and twirling her wand. Noticing the patience in the mediwitch, Harry decided to try for one last gamble, "Perhaps it would be good for me to get out a little bit. Some fresh air might relax me a little bit."

The pleading smile on the boy's face contrasted with the withering expression sent his way by the witch. Rolling her eyes and throwing a hand to the sky, she conceded. Sliding her wand into her bun of hair, she waved him off and turned away. "Your wand is next to your bed. I expect you back an hour after dinner," her voice lowered to a dangerous tone, "Or else I might be forced to come looking for you. We can talk more tonight." Her voice had modulated back to a cheery level, hurrying the boy along as he struggled to put on his shoes and leave her alone as fast as possible.

One thing had always scared him about being lonely was the uncontrollable desire to drive people away. The only ones that were truly let in were the ones that did something to break through that wall of emotion. Jumping as he pulled his shoe on, Harry grasped his wand and rushed out the door. But really, a wall built to keep people out can easily be turned to keep people in.

Needless to say, Harry would be on time tonight.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

_~ We Are The Champions? ~_

The hallways were clear on his way through the castle. Of course, he was walking around during the middle of the day the week before exams. It seemed eerie though, perhaps because the castle was so silent. Even the walls were quieter, watching his passing with cautious eyes. It was likely that the story of Voldemort's return, Harry's own escape, and a correct account of Cedric's death were released to the public. At this point, only the people that knew he wasn't a killer would trust him. The rest…

"Hmmm…I wonder what Sprout thinks about the whole mess."

Harry's thoughts wandered as his feet took him through the castle on autopilot. A passing ghost elicited a greeting from him, its raised eyebrow meeting a cheery wave from the Potter. The alarmed expression made him pause in his thoughts as he kept his brisk pace going

"I'll tone down the happiness a little bit too," a sad smile touched Harry's face as he passed a set of yellow banners – edged with black – outside the Great Hall. "After all, Hogwarts is in mourning for a student," Harry stopped, snapping a clean salute to the banner. He felt tears gathering in his heart, but they didn't appear on his face. Grimacing, he murmured an apology before moving on. The house point containers weren't spared a second glance. Who cared about a silly pissing contest between dorms when people were dying?

Slipping his way through a door, Harry raised his eyes to the sun and looked at the clear skies. A perfect day for a quidditch match, if only there were teams to play. Sighing, Harry lowered his eyes to the ground and saw a few Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students milling around the lake. Looking at the uniforms, Harry noticed that they weren't that different from his own. The boys' ties were unkempt, the girls' varied between pushing the limits of conservative and provocative. They all looked so young, just like the Hogwarts students. A few Durmstrang students floated around on broomsticks, tossing a Quaffle back and forth – so similar to any kids kicking around a soccer ball. Some of the Beauxbatons students screamed when the Giant Squid splashed them as punishment for being too gloomy within its domain – or maybe it was just in a playful mood.

Either way, it was over forty students that had been at the school since before Christmas; but Harry could only recall meeting two of them and only hearing the names of maybe ten of them. It was time to work up some of that courage that Gryffindor was so famed for, or maybe a little of the cunning that Slytherin was. Giggling, Harry realized it didn't matter, "I'm from Hogwarts, and we're a little bit of everything."

With that, Harry casually strode down to the lake, trying to pick out a familiar face. A ways from the lake, he picked out Fleur Delacour arguing with a few of her friends – and waving a dismissive hand at a smaller figure that tugged at her pant-leg. Over the lake, floating with a grace that he didn't have on the ground, Viktor Krum easily controlled his broom through a series of falls and recoveries.

The champions were the only ones he had met, other than the heads (Karkaroff and Maxine). Harry slowed his pace; losing a little confidence as he realized the rather inauspicious circumstances he had last met them in. Flinching as he recalled the maze, Harry nearly came to a halt. Not only had someone died in there, but the Hogwarts professor patrolling the grounds had taken out the other two champions. Would the other two hold a grudge for the loss?

"'Arry!"

The sound of Gabrielle's voice made the decision for him, as the various groups of students took notice of his approach. Viktor did not even flinch, his eagle vision having already marked Harry's approach. Fleur let out an aggravated yell and began loudly berating her sister in French. The little girl simply stuck out her tongue and ran at the shocked young man. Eyes glinting dangerously, Fleur stalked after her little sister.

"Protect me Harry!" The little girl cried as she swung herself behind the fourteen-year old boy. Peering out from the side, she hardly noticed that her 'knight-in-shining-armor' didn't even match her sister's height. If she had, maybe she wouldn't have been making faces from behind her.

Harry made calming motions with his hands, trying to deter the irate French witch. "Fleur, she's your sister. You love your sister, remember?" Glancing down at Gabrielle, he clamped a hand over her open mouth, restraining her tongue from mocking her sister. "See, your sister doesn't deserve whatever hex you were going to put on her." He smiled as restrained the tiny girl, who was now licking at his hand. "Gabrielle, stop messing with your sister. She'll kick my arse-" The little girl's eyes went wide, she obviously knew what that word meant. "-From here to Paris if I try to fight her."

"Potter! Unhand the little brat and let me curse her like she deserves!" Fleur's eyes were getting dangerously fiery.

"Ow! She bit me!" Harry let go of Gabrielle, and was shocked at how fast the little girl sprinted around both of them. Ducking a curse from the explosively angry sibling, Harry was treated to a taste of just how_good_ the French witch was. It was impressive, half of the curses just materialized from the end of her wand, no incantation or anything. The other half was rope – that easily trussed up one Durmstrang student and two Beauxbatons students. Finally letting out a screech, Fleur lowered her wand angrily, obviously disgusted with her sister's maneuverability. Turning her angry glare to the lone Hogwarts champion, Fleur prepared to unleash a tirade.

"Hey, I didn't know she was going to bite me! Am I just supposed to try and hand the ickle girl to you." Harry's hands were raised in surrender, his wand noticeably absent. Scrunching his brow, Harry looked at his waist to discover it was missing from his waistband, along with his belt. A shouted spell and a lurch later, Harry found himself suspended in the air from his pants, barely holding on. Behind him, the little brat was concentrating hard on the spell. "Bloody Hell! Is this some kinda conspiracy or something?"

Giggling, Fleur flicked her wand and interrupted the spell, neatly disarming her sister and catching the wand. She then proceeded to change her sister's hair to a bright green and temporarily seal her mouth shut. Oomph-ing as he hit the ground, Harry spent a moment fixing his pants before he turned to the smug-looking French witch. "Who has won this game little boy?" Fleur's smile faltered as she remembered the winnings of the last game.

Harry's broad grin unnerved her, and his soft chuckles made her narrow her eyes in irritation. "Beauxbatons wins the dueling competition!" He announced, making a cordial bow before walking up to the silver-haired young woman. Speaking so only she could hear, he whispered, "Cedric wouldn't want us to forget how to have fun." His solemn smile lent an aura of regret to the words. Nodding, Fleur quietly handed his wand over.

Suddenly one of the ropes seemed to re-animate itself, tying both the champions together neatly. Fleur struggled to get free, teasing the boy in from of her with her wriggles. Harry blushed at his proximity to the Veela, looking up at the sky to see the dark grin of the Durmstrang champion. "Well Potter? Who was it that won the duels?"

Struggling to control his growing blush, Harry smiled up at the other man. "I stand corrected, my good sir." A roar of frustration sounded from the chest trying to smother his face. "It appears that this day goes to Viktor Krum!" His shout was a little bit muffled, but the sound brought out a cheer from the surrounding Durmstrang students. Stilling her body, Fleur kneed Harry in the crotch before degenerating into screaming French curse words at the unimpressed Bulgarian. Crumpling a little bit, Harry lost the handle on his balance, tipping the two over.

Rolling down the hill, Harry found himself crushed, pressed, and poked every which way. The wands crushed between the two of them went unscathed, but their pride was rather injured. Smiling from the sky, Viktor lazily curled his broom on a loop. "Why don't you get off your broom and fight like a real wizard!" Fleur's voice pierced Harry's ears with its intensity.

Grumbling in an irritable fashion, the Durmstrang champion swooped down beside them. Viktor released the pair, watching the two separate, and then spat out, "The chevalier you seek is dead," his voice was dark and angry, "The only champions left are the little boy and the dark wolf."

Looking down at his feet, Viktor held out a hand for the French witch. Looking up at his dark eyes, she saw the lack of sleep in his face too. Taking the hand, she rose to her feet, and they both reached down to help Harry stand up. They stood there, the three of them taking a moment for silent introspection.

"He was a good man."

Viktor's tone quavered, as though he was near tears.

"A true chevalier."

Fleur sounded full of regret, wishing that things were different.

"It should have been me."

Harry's pronouncement brought gasps of shock from the other two champions. They looked at him incredulously, both of them taking it differently. Viktor sneered, while Fleur's eyes glowed with rage. Disrespect for the dead, and disrespect for himself. Unforgivable. Harry crouched at the edge of the lake, looking into the distance. He picked up a rock and threw it, trying to skip it and failing miserably.

"It was rigged in the first place," Harry's soft admission tempered the looks of disgust, since they had all cheated in some manner during the competition, "The professor, a Death Eater in disguise, took you two out of the competition, and then we took the cup together." Harry clenched his fist around a rock, drawing blood against the sharp stone. "Only one person was expected on the other side. Voldemort had the other one killed." Harry grimaced, phantom pain showing in his face. Dropping into silence, Harry didn't see the raised eyebrows pass between the other two champions.

**Smack**

"Idiot!" Fleur cried, her fist impacting the back of Harry's head. The boy fell over into the lake, clothes soaked by the unceremonious drop.

"Potter…" Viktor's voice trailed off as he looked to the younger champion with a disgruntled expression. "You should be remembering Cedric's life. From what I knew of him, he wouldn't want you to – ah, what is the phrase – 'beat yourself up over it.'"

Looking up at the other two champions from the lake, Harry watched their faces. Fleur was examining him with sad eyes, but the smile on her face betrayed her amusement. Viktor's sad smile appeared to be more of a grimace on his stony face, but Harry had spent more than enough time around the vicious quidditch star to see the upturned quirk of his lips. The two were a dichotomy in looks, with Fleur's light, elegant beauty contrasting with Viktor's darkly handsome face and muscled frame. Harry's imagination created a phantom off to the side, a memory of a dead friend. Cedric seemed to be a part of the wind, but it was like Harry could make out the unblemished looks behind a veil of twisting air. The phantasm beckoned, a handsome grin decorating its ethereal face.

Harry lurched to his feet, wand clenched in his hand. "Aguamenti!" His spell caught the other champions off guard. Fleur and Viktor ended up completely soaked, and Harry's loud laugh at their dampened demeanor was a mocking thorn to their pride. Jumping to the side to avoid a pair of multicolored blasts, Harry took off from the lakeside, sprinting towards the observing students. Stopping in front of Fleur's friends, Harry raised his arms in surrender as a new idea popped into his head.

"Wait! Truce! I surrender!" The cries were ignored, and Harry found himself stunned and trussed before he knew what happened.

Regaining consciousness under questionable circumstances, Harry discovered Fleur and Viktor looking at him with bemused expressions. "Well Viktor? What should we do to the little boy?" A haughty look decorated Fleur's face, and she flipped her hair back as she turned an eye to the Durmstrang student.

Viktor tapped his wand against his palm, a sinister look in his eye, "Perhaps we can teach him to respect his elders and betters."

Harry grinned, "Perhaps the two schools would be interested in a pick-up game of quidditch, to prove just how much better you are," his grin widened, and a little chuckle punctuated his speech, "Since we already know how much more ancient you two are."

Fleur opened her mouth in outrage, but Viktor's raised hand stopped her. He looked at Harry, a glint of interest in his eye. "Name the teams, Harry Potter." Rolling her eyes in annoyance, Fleur crossed her arms and watched the bound 'Boy Who Lived' speculatively.

"Fleur picks a team from Beauxbatons, with me as the Seeker," Harry nodded to the French witch, "And you pick a team from Durmstrang." Shrugging his shoulders, Harry went on "After all, Hogwarts cheated to win the tournament. We don't need to prove anything on the Quidditch pitch," Harry smirked, "Unless Potter beats Krum to the Snitch."

Swiftly disenchanting Harry's binds, Viktor held out a hand to help the young Hogwarts champion up. Grasping the other boy's hand firmly, Viktor turned to Fleur. Shaking her head, she consented to the game. Pulling Harry up close, Viktor grinned broadly, "You're on, Potter!"

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

_~ Dinner And A Show ~_

"Wheeee! We won! We won! Run faster Harry!"

"Gabby! Stop pulling on my hair!"

"Damnit Potter! Come back here with my sister!"

A sudden cacophony of voices shocked the unnaturally quiet Great Hall into a somber silence in the middle of dinner. When the doors flew open, revealing a bruised and stained Harry Potter – gasps of shock went through the hall. The looks turned incredulous as they noticed that he was decorated with a little girl riding on his shoulders, triumphantly waving her arms around. Dropped jaws only dropped farther when the pair was followed by a battered collection of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, chattering and talking amicably with each other. Fleur Delacour, part-veela queen of Beauxbatons, was grass stained and smiling, a cut over her eye leaving a trail of blood down the side of her face. She stuck her tongue out at an equally disarrayed Viktor Krum as they came through the doors of the Hall. Viktor sported a black eye, a swollen lip, and a more noticeable gait to his walk.

The Hogwarts students just watched as the crowd of friendly competitors made a space for themselves at the end of the Hufflepuff table. As they sat down, the bench and table lengthened itself in response to the number of additions. A few of the mismatched players tossed a Quaffle over the table at each other, remembering excellent shots as they gathered food from the platters of appetizers appearing in front of them. The house elves were obviously told not to expect the other schools after the previous nights, as the selection seemed far more sparse then usual. One popped up next to Dumbledore, and he whispered a quiet instruction to the elf before it popped away. It reappeared next to the three champions, trying to get their attention. The three champions looked like they had been through hell and back, but they were ribbing each other as they recounted the highlights of their match.

"Harry! You must have some kind of death wish," Fleur threw her hands in the air, "I swear that you almost ate a few of those bludgers in the face trying to lure Viktor into them."

"Hey now," a cheeky grin came to Harry's lips, "It worked, didn't it?"

Viktor thumped his goblet to the table, "You are an evil Seeker, I should have never fallen for some of those feints."

The elf managed to capture the attention of Gabrielle, who gleefully took a hold of Harry's unruly hair and brought the server to his attention. "Gabby! What did I say about the hair!" Looking over at the elf, Harry raised an eyebrow. "Dobby? What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Harry Potter – we's elves weren't expecting so many people so suddenly, so it might be a little while before we have any food prepared."

Fleur raised a hand to wave the elf off, "We'll be fine, just send it up when it's ready," raising an eyebrow at the oddly attired elf, she commented, "Do you really wear all of that all the time?"

Viktor threw in a word, "It does look like it might be a fire hazard, is that safe in the kitchen."

Dobby wrought his hands in embarrassment. "I's is careful in the kitchens, we's use magic to keep it out of the food."

"Whee! You look fun!" Gabrielle flipped herself down Harry's back, and Harry was caught by surprise, only grasping her inches from the bench.

"Gabrielle, careful…" Harry spoke as he lowered her to the bench next to him.

"Can we have some cookies too?" Gabrielle pouted to the elf. Fleur went to raise an objection, and then shrugged her shoulders when she noticed Viktor laughing at the little girl.

Dobby nodded, snapping his fingers to make a platter of cookies appear on the table. The tiny French girl squealed and hugged the elf, before taking a seat beside Harry and grabbing a cookie. Fleur just rolled her eyes, eating a piece of cheese before launching back into a critique of the match. Dobby's eyes bounced between the champions for a moment until he just smiled and disappeared. Viktor countered Fleur's tirade with his own examinations.

"Fleur, I think that your chasers were flirting with mine," he shook his head, glancing down at the guilty trio – who didn't even bat an eyelash at the scrutiny – and snorting at the idiocy that they performed on the field.

Fleur let out a loud laugh, "Maybe if your chasers were as beautiful as the pair that I chose." Batting her eyelashes, she spoke in a mock-seductive voice, "Weren't you distracted too, fearless captain?" Running her tongue over a cherry she picked up, she sucked on it a bit before biting into it.

Across the table, Harry rolled his eyes, "Your beaters nearly ruined that plan Viktor, where did you find that pair of berserkers?" Harry pointed down the table to a boy and girl, who sat with clasped hands farther down the table. Harry shivered at the sight of their open affection for each other, "Any child they have is likely to try to knock out the teachers at the sight of a bad grade."

Viktor let out a laugh, "They want to go pro, but the Bulgarian national team wouldn't take them as a pair last year." He eyed them speculatively, "Perhaps when word gets out that they managed to bludgeon the best that Beauxbatons has to offer…"

Fleur ducked her head, looking down at the couple with fear in her eyes, "Mon dieu! They were terrifying to play against. It was like bludgers just appeared at the best moments." Shaking her head as she considered her own woeful beaters, one of which had his arm in a sling, the other had conjured a set of crutches. "Jacques and Vincent tried, but they were no match for yours in teamwork."

Harry nodded, smiling at the thought of Vincent, "Yeah, but when Vincent got his bat to the ball that one time… BAM! It was like a rocket to Viktor's face."

Viktor winced, gingerly icing the bruise over his eye with a cold piece of fruit. "What they lacked in teamwork, they almost made up for with pure power," he admitted, "But they never would have gotten that hit if it weren't for you blinding me with that feint." Grinning, Harry took a bit of his apple, wincing when he felt one of his teeth bleed a little bit.

"Without that hit, I would never have had the time to get the Snitch!"

Around the amicably chatting group, the Great Hall watched the group of players with looks of disgust, awe, shock, irritation, and anguish. Ron had returned to eating, but was watching Harry's interaction with the Beauxbatons champion with an evil eye. Hermione was tearful at the callous behavior of the other schools, laughing and playing around at this time. Some of the other students were less unnerved, Draco Malfoy simply sneered at the behavior, while the Weasley twins grinned and toasted the voices – Harry's proclamation bringing them no small joy. Some of the students returned to eating, small smiles on their faces – Neville Longbottom, happy to see that his roommate wasn't brooding over anything; Ginny Weasley, proud that Harry had defeated Viktor; and Luna Lovegood, who had never noticed the entrance in the first place. The Hufflepuffs had tentatively continued eating, a few raised eyebrows and confused expressions crossing their faces.

However, one face was angry. Rising to her feet, a distraught Cho Chang marched over to the three champions. Professor Dumbledore and the Heads of House rose to their feet and drew wands, prepared to petrify the tearful witch. Touching a shaky hand to Harry's shoulder, Cho watched him turn with divine retribution written all over her face.

**SLAP**

Not even drawing her wand, Cho had simply hauled off and smacked Harry across the face. Screaming, she slapped him again before she found herself tackled to the ground by a tiny, silver-haired girl. "Harry!" Gabrielle's battle cry brought a few snickers from the Hall. Viktor and Fleur rose to their feet, wands out in a ready stance. Harry stood up and pulled Gabrielle from the dark-haired witch, shaking off his shock at the powerful slap with ease.

"Whoa, chill out Gabby," he crunched his eyebrow as he noticed the identity of the aggressor. "Cho? What was that for?"

Breaking into loud tears, Cho hiccupped as she sat in an unceremonious heap on the ground. "How dare you…" her voice came out hardly louder then a whisper. "Cedric-"

A voice from the side cut her off, "Cedric is dead," the voice sounded hard and cruel from the mouth of the Durmstrang student – Ashe – Harry recalled, one of the beaters.

Cho rose with a scream of anguish and rage, her wand raised. Shouting, she began a tirade on the unimpressed students, "How _dare_ you disrespect his memory! You didn't even know him," she hissed, before yelling some more, "All of you just go out and smile and laugh!" She jabbed her wand into Harry's chest, burning a hole into his shirt and a mark into his chest as her wand spat sparks of angry magic at him. "And you! **You killed him**! And you've got the _balls_ to come here and laugh and joke, and be happy…and…" Cho broke into tears, dissolving back to the floor. "How dare you, how dare you…" she kept whispering.

Pushing Gabrielle to the side, Harry took a napkin from the table, passing it to the distraught girl. Cho ignored the offering, inconsolable in her grief. Harry looked up at the hall, seeing the same judgment in so many faces across the hall. Professor Flitwick slowly approached the two, his wand away as he prepared to comfort one of his ravens. "Miss Chang, it's alright," the professor whispered in a soothing voice.

The professor was cut off by a cry of fury from Fleur. "How dare **we**? How dare**Harry**?" the haughtiness was gone from her voice, replaced by pure disgust. "We," she waved her hand to include the whole hall, "who were Cedric's schoolmates through this year. We," she gestured to the other two champions, "Who competed with Cedric, facing the same dangers that he did at every turn." Fleur stood up on a bench, stepping onto the table with one leg, "And _Harry_, who watched him die." Fleur's voice was damning, condemning Cedric's ex-girlfriend with its intensity. "**Harry**, who brought his body back." The French witch walked onto the table, "Cedric didn't belong to any of us…" her voice was quiet as she stepped down next to Harry.

**SLAP**

"At least we're celebrating his life." Fleur sniffed, a tear making its way down her cheek. "He would want it that way." Fleur caressed Cho's cheek, her eyes boring into the soul of the other witch, "I weep too, for everyone's loss. So I won't _forget_ him." Fleur took her hand from the witch's cheek, "But I care enough about him to _remember_ him in a way that he would have _loved_."

The whole hall was silent, lost in thought at the words of the French witch. Viktor picked up his refilled goblet, raising it into the air. "To Cedric Diggory. A great man." The Durmstrang students let out a resounding "Aye!" The Beauxbatons chorused "Oui!" Some of the Hogwarts crew let out a "Hear Hear!" And Harry toasted Fleur's glass, taking a small sip and offering his goblet to the shocked witch on the floor.

Giving her a sad smile, Harry spoke, "Chin up Cho. He loved you. Would he want you to suffer like this?" Harry tipped a little bit of juice onto her lips, and she smiled back as the liquid stained her lips.

"I'm sorry Harry." Cho spoke, her voice barely audible over the crowd of students toasting around them. Fleur raised an eyebrow, looking between the two for a moment before she went to make her way around to her seat. Harry smiled, rubbing his cheek as he set his goblet back down. Gabrielle held out a cookie to the thoroughly chastised Asian witch, who took it with a soft "Thank you."

"Cho…" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "If I could change things, I would," Harry smiled, tears gathering in his eyes. "I can't change it though. I wouldn't know what to do if I could, it all happened so fast." Harry's eyes went far away for a second – the voice,_'Kill The Spare,'_ brought a shiver to his body – before Gabrielle tugged on his leg, forcing him to sit down and live in the present. "So I'm just trying to live the best I can," he smiled at the weak admission, "For him."

Cho looked down at her feet. She was still in pain, distraught from losing such a large piece of her life. She spoke softly when she did, taking a tentative bit of the cookie, "I'll try that Harry." She smiled as the sugar touched her tongue. Wiping her eyes, "Bloody hell, I must be a mess." Harry just smiled at her, shrugging his shoulders at his own appearance. The smile fell from her lips, and she started to turn away. "It might take me a bit longer, but thanks Harry." Cho looked over at the Beauxbatons princess, acknowledging her work too, "I'll see you around sometime."

Harry watched her leave with a soft smile. He didn't feel quite so drawn to her right now. Maybe it was the conversation, but Cho definitely wasn't the girl for him today. Feeling a fork poke into his strained leg muscle, Harry let out a yelp. "Gabby?"

"Eat, Harry Potter." Her frank observations made him laugh. This might be the girl that he needed today. A ten-year old with questionable English and violent tendencies was definitely at the top of his list. "Ouch!" Another poke sealed it. He returned to eating, tuning out the quietly whispering Hogwarts students and diving back into the fast and furious discussions with the foreign students.

Oddly, upon his return to Madame Pomfrey's clutches after dinner, he wasn't too unhappy with the dressing down he received for playing Quidditch. He hugged the stern witch and stripped for his check-up, smiling as she prodded him with her wand and forced him to take some disgusting potion. She smiled right back, a feral grin that betrayed her intentions as Harry found himself being levitated to the hospital bed – almost completely knocked out.

Today was the first day of the end of his life. He made friends, played Quidditch, and received kisses from beautiful girls. Falling asleep, Harry wondered just how he was going to match it.


	3. Throw in the Jokers

(I disclaim ownership of everything claimed by J.K. Rowlings.)

_Six days from Privet Drive_

_~ Our Most Illustrious Pranksters ~_

"Up! Mr. Potter!" Madame Pomfrey's voice broke into Harry's dream world. As Harry lurched his body into a right angle, he desperately glanced around for annoyed voice. Scrabbling his glasses onto his face, Harry brought his visual centers to bear on the Mediwitch and swiftly determined that discretion was the better part of valor. Apologizing profusely – though Harry had no idea why he should be apologizing – the boy nearly fell out of his bed in his haste to prepare for a lashing from the irate woman.

"Please Madame Pomfrey! I didn't mean to! Don't hurt me!" Harry cringed away from the witch, who was now tapping her foot on the floor with a raised eyebrow. A muffled laugh from behind him shocked him into falling from the bed. "Uff-da!"

The muffled chuckles turned to raucous laughter, and then Harry looked up to see a smirk crossing Pomfrey's normally stoic expression. Raising an eyebrow and giving a superior cough, she softly spoke a diagnostic charm and examined the results. Carefully bringing himself to his feet, Harry turned his head to the side – only to discover Hogwarts' infamous pair of pranksters grinning at him from across the hospital bed.

"Ickle Harrykins!" The twin on the right cheerfully called his name.

A head shake and a tearful sneeze later, the twin on the left admonished, "You let us down –"

"-With hilarious results!" the other redhead finished, a grin decorating his features.

"We bow to the newest prankster!" they held their arms out in a flourish, presenting an empty space next to Harry's bed. The two swung their arms again, attempting for great effect – as the first award ceremony had gone without applause. Looking over to each other, they noticed the distinct lack of a third member between them and promptly accused the floor.

"Aha!" Left's voice rang out.

"You took our new partner!" Right cried,

"Stole her right out from under us!" Left fell to his knees, once again attempting to replicate a tearful disposition.

Right stumbled forward to the empty bed, burying his face in the rumpled sheets, "Why would you tear us apart so soon?"

"Hadn't even pranked Snape together," Left wiped his eyes.

Clenching his fist, Right raised it to the ceiling, "We will avenge you!"

Left cheered, "Yes! They'll never know what hit 'em!" A puzzled look crossed his features, "Hey George? Who are we taking vengeance on?"

Right – George – spun and pointed at, "That tile!" and flicked his wand from a shirt pocket.

"Right! Let's do this!" Left – Fred – exclaimed, even as he swished his own wand to bear on the poor tile.

"Ahem." The two pranksters (and Harry) looked up at the Mediwitch watching them like a hawk from outside of her office door.

"An evil twin!" George screamed.

"Oi!" Fred groused, "I resent that claim!"

"Not you, you dolt," George wrinkled his eyebrow in frustration, pointing a finger at the school nurse (who simply rolled her eyes in amusement),"Her!"

Fred raised an eyebrow, "I'm not convinced, how do we know that's not the real her and the floor didn't just eat the evil one?"

George growled, tossing his wand onto a nearby bed, "I'll show you evil one!" and proceeded to tackle his twin onto Harry's bed, Fred's wand floating safely out of the conflict. The pair of twits wrestled good-naturedly, their wands neatly resting on the bedside table.

A soft snort drew his eyes back to the Mediwitch, Harry felt his heart rise when he saw Madame Pomfrey watching him as she swished into her office. A final wink was the last glimpse he had of her for the year, as a reproving voice floated back to his ears. "I trust that I won't see you again until the fall, Mr. Potter. Do stay out of trouble during the summer," her voice dipped into a sarcastic drawl for a moment, "Messrs Weasley and Weasley, the same goes for you."

"Yes, Madame Pomfrey," A harmony of voices rose from the mess of sheets and blankets on Harry's former residence.

An audible sniff came from the room, "Not that I expect it to stop you. I expect to see as few of your victims as possible in the next coming days, with exams continuing tomorrow."

"Understood, ma'am!" Salutes were snapped from within the bedding, and the pair involved immediately let out yelps of shock and pain as they encountered the other's bodies.

"You have a good summer too," Harry paused for a second, grinning at the pair, "See you in the fall, Poppy!"

Ducking under the bed, Harry dodged _into_ the Mediwitch's light Stinging Hex. His outcry caused a set of chuckles from above him as he rubbed a sore foot.

"Bloody hell!"

"Good show Pomfrey!"

"Shoo! Off with you hooligans!" Her office door slammed shut amid laughter and the shocked silence of Harry Potter – who gave a withering glare to the closed door. Two redheads turned their eyes to Harry's irritated demeanor and grinned, before immediately slamming two pillows into his face. He hit the floor with a moan and a "Bloody Hell!"

"Now Potter!" One began.

"We can't have you glaring at our wonderful new partner!" The second's eyes danced with mischief.

"After all," The first continued, "She might decide to take her own revenge the next time you're stuck in here."

"Maybe she'll sneak an extra potion or two into your regimen," Twin Number Two mused.

"Or let you out with a curse or two," Number One's grin stretched to untrustworthy proportions.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the second stage-whispered to his partner-in-crime, "I'd be surprised if she hadn't done it before to him, think about all those pre-game jitters."

Mouth widening in shock, the first cried in outrage, "Now that's downright sabotage!" He pouted dramatically, "Just 'cause Ickle Harrikins can't keep himself out of the hospital wing most games is no reason to force him out of the game!"

"Who would Ollie play as a replacement? You think Gin-Gin would be up for it?" Two piped up.

One threw his arms up in despair, "Here I'm trying to dissect the former plots of the school's –" He glanced back at the closed door with a pair of wide eyes, "- Most esteemed Mediwitch!" He then whispered to his colleague, "Or is it 'most unsuspecting prankster'," he twitched his eyebrows suggestively, before continuing with fervor. "And you're trying to figure out who would be the best replacement for our most injury-inclined associate!"

"Oi!" Harry cried out, "I'm right here!" He looked between the two conspirators with indignation written across his face.

The second twin crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, shaking his head in disappointment. "George, I think Mr. Potter's manner is both unsightly and in need of punishment."

"I'll say!" George – the first speaker – nodded his head and smiled, "Let's teach him a lesson about respecting his elders."

The twin terrors stood up on the beds and prepared to introduce Harry to a devastating pair of Bludger Bat/Pillows, until a voice rang out into the room, bringing them bouncing to their knees on the mattress. "Out of my hospital wing boys!"

"Yes, Madame Pomfrey!" The three responded in an ill-conceived chord.

"And didn't you two have a message for Mr. Potter?" she paused for effect, "To be given _outside_ of my hospital wing."

The pair snapped off salutes at her menacing tone, "Yes, Ma'am!" Fred immediately scooted off of the bed and gathered up the three wands (fumbling with Harry's other belongings), whilst George brought Harry up by one arm and marched him unceremoniously to the door. Harry was pulled along without protest, eager to get away from the escalating aggravation of his doctor.

"I'll send you a card from the Muggles!" Harry shouted as George removed him from the premises.

"Bye Madame Pomfrey!" George called out through the door.

"We'll try not to send you too many patients in the next few days!" Fred shut both doors behind them with a grin, as the trio escaped the wrath of Hogwart's 'Most Esteemed Mediwitch'.

Peering out of her office, Madame Pomfrey snickered at the criminal speed the three troublemakers displayed. Twitching her eyes to the top of her door, the award was scrawled in bright, neon paint above the entrance. Shaking her head, she quietly whispered to herself, "Hooligans, the lot of them."

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

"Alright you two, what prank are you pulling?" Harry looked over Hogwarts' most infamous pair of troublemakers suspiciously.

The twins broke into laughter at the disgruntled expression on Potter's face, George guffawing and falling to the ground. Fred chuckled lightly as he reached into his robes threateningly, and with a flourish he produced – a letter! "Now Harry, we're just being obedient little messengers."

Looking up from the floor indignantly, George offered his own rebuttal, "How could you accuse us of something so cruel and unusual as a _prank_ attempt on the school's resident hero?" George tried to pout, but his lips twitched into a grin uncontrollably.

Harry's raised an eyebrow at the pair's attempt to act innocent, completely dismissing any vague sense of belief he might have been conveying. George looked like he was trying to tear up, but a tugging at the edge of his lips made it easy to discern the nature of his saline production as laughter rather than sadness. Fred tapped a foot with a proud grin on his face, happiness radiating from his amused lips – the letter held out with one hand from a jaunty pose, the other hand poised on his hip mockingly. "'Special Delivery from Dumbledore'," Fred let out a mocking whistle, imitating a train while George flicked his wand – conjuring a hat that would not be out of place on a postman's head.

Harry peered at the envelope speculatively, "Is that it?" pinching his lips in a suspicious twitch, then he flicked his eyes between the messenger speculatively, "Why'd he send it with you two?" Harry asked the million-dollarpound question.

The two glanced at each other, waggling eyebrows in a display of maddening synchronicity, before launching into an explanation. "You see Harry," Fred began.

"-it wasn't technically sent with us," George shrugged.

"-But, the original messengers-" Fred continued.

"Or at least _one_ of the original messengers," George nudged his twin with a little smirk.

Fred grinned at the implication, "Was less then inclined to interrupt their-"

A coughing fit of laughter interrupted, "Hermione!"

Glaring at his twin playfully, Fred went on, "Study sessions on the last day before exams."

"Of course, the other messenger protested quite vehemently!" George waved his arms extravagantly.

Fred chuckled, "'Vehement' indeed, never though I'd hear such a word used to describe Ickle Ronniekins."

"Oi! Who's the one telling the story here?" George protested.

Fred smirked, a rebuttal on his lips, but was caught by an explosive interruption. **Bang!** A blasting charm went off, courtesy of Harry and his rather irate wand movements. "Bloody Hell! You were both telling the damn story!"

Waving a hand in front of his face to disperse phantom smoke, Fred admonished the younger man, "Can't let a bloke have a bit of fun these days."

"Never would have guessed it from his speech last night though." George countered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Fred's eyes widened, "Oh, good show mate! Totally shocked the school out of its funk!" he shook one of Harry's hands vigorously, forcing the letter into Harry's palm.

George nodded, "Was getting worried that we'd be all alone in that endeavor," then he curled his lip in disgust, "Not that we had much left in the way of supplies"

Releasing Harry's crushed hand, Fred agreed with his twin, "Too right! Rotten Bagma-"

George clasped a hand over his twin's mouth, a sharp word crossing his lips in irritation, as he looked Fred in the eyes meaningfully. Fred looked back with wild eyes, waving his wand behind his back to spell his twin's hair bright green. George opened his mouth in shock, and then proceeded to curse his twin with yellow robes. The two separated with a rainbow spatter of spell colors as they each took engarde stances and proceeded to curse, charm, hex, transfigure, inscribe glowing runes upon, and even conjure small objects in attempts to disorient the other. To Harry, standing as an observer to the familial confrontation, only confusion passed his mind as he made a single pass at deciphering the words of Hogwarts' most infamous pranksters. "Hermione wouldn't deliver the message because she wants to study for exams." Harry puzzled out, whispering softly to himself, "And Ron protested – _vehemently_ – about something… and so the twins delivered the message."

"Too right mate!" came the voice of one Technicolor twin, standing triumphantly over the defeated form of… what appeared to be one of Hagrid's breeding experiments gone terribly, hideously wrong. Not that the victorious twin looked particularly _human_ at this point in time. Possessing a more humanoid appearance, as opposed to the distorted limbs twisted in a pretzel and being shat upon by a rather large pigeon, our rainbow-shaded Weasley let out a deep laugh (a sound that would have been out of place given his normal appearance, but now seemed rather well-chosen) and spoke a rather dramatic piece of information, "I am the –", or at least he attempted to gift the world with this information – which may very well have been completely useless and vitally important in the same breath – only to be interrupted by the resurrected creature beneath his foot.

"Boo! Coo! Cachoo!"

Harry completely gave up understanding the two fiendish members of Clan Weasley, instead choosing to focus on the letter from Dumbledore.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I believe that we should finish our conversation from the other evening, I will be in my office between lunch and dinner should you wish to have a conversation. I also commend you for your excellent handling of the situation last night. The Diggorys will be meeting with Professor Sprout this morning around nine AM to discuss the events of the Triwizard Final; your attendance has been mentioned but is not mandatory. The family has already mentioned that they are quite well off and would like for you to take all of the winnings._

_P.S. I enjoyed the excellent Barrel Caramels, and hope you manage to find more._

"Dumbledore is always short and terrible at explaining the point in his letters," Harry mused. Scratching his head, the young wizard shifted his view to the somewhat recovered mess of Weasley in front of him.

"Why yes, brother dear. I do believe that the Pretzeling Pretzels have potential, but I think I'd like to talk more about the pigeons and how we should market them," Twit A spoke in a high-pitched voice reminiscent of his sister.

Twit B responded with a heavy French accent, "The shatting blighters would be too difficult to charm onto someone, it was hard enough to conjure a pigeon – much less one that only shits on the target's head." Absently the two flicked their wands at each other in an eerily synchronized motion, dispelling one of the charms. Harry shook his head in disgust, not quite sure how they manage to get so adept at magic while remaining such total fools.

"Oi!" Harry yelled.

Twit A swooshed his wand in a grandiose motion, producing his own conjured pigeon – except this one was more inclined to be fairly see-through. It immediately fell to the ground and disappeared. Twit B cheered his delight as he began dancing a jig for joy. "An excellent example of why _I_ am the transfiguration-inclined member of the Weasley Clan," he took a bow. "Us G's have to stick together.

Twit A – Fred, as Harry deduced – rolled his eyes at his twin's joyous proclamation. "Look, just because Uncle G happened to be rather good at transfiguration holds no bearing on our present economic conditions. Uncle F would be quite disappointed with the whole business we've got ourselves into."

Harry waved his arms in the air, beginning to wonder how Ron ever put up with these two for siblings. "Twits! What's the time?"

George nodded his head, agreeing with his twin. "We've got to find a way out of this mess, without Mum being any the wiser. She gets wind of it and then," he made a slicing motion across his throat, "Slllkt!"

"I think our throats will be the least of our problems, think of our hands at the end of the summer," Fred moaned. "Worked to the bone we'll be, never to see unwrinkled fingers again."

George clasped his brother in a hug, as the two let out cries of anguish together. Harry sighed, "Never underestimate a Weasley." There was never a clear difference between the acts that they took to gain attention for themselves and the times that they were just playing games with each other. It was almost like the whole thing was some sort of extravagant act of theatre, except nobody was in on the script – or the gags, stage whispers, tearjerking scenes, and monologues.

Harry knelt to the ground, looking through the small pile of belongings that had been dropped by the two overbearing redheads. He had one bag of gold, heavy enough to hit someone over the head with; one wand, useful for a variety of irritating spells that would only divert the ire of the twins onto a different target; one pair of shoes, good for throwing; one somewhat warm roll, which Harry proceeded to eat. Harry mulled over the list of useful objects trying to discover some way to get information from the twins. Clocks weren't exactly everywhere in the castle, and he had already been banned from the hospital wing.

"Bagman. Economic conditions. Lack of supplies." Harry muttered to himself, connecting the dots. The puzzle ended at the bag of gold. One thousand Galleons. Technically, Harry had won half of it. He wasn't particularly proud of winning it, but he was the surviving victor. It was important to Harry that he get to the meeting with the Diggorys, seeing as he had been the last person to see Cedric alive. How important was it?

"I will give you Five Hundred Galleons if you tell me the time!" Harry yelled out, shocking them out of their mock-tears.

They turned to Harry, surprised looks on their faces. George turned to his brother, whispering, "Hey, did you remember he was there?" The responding shake of Fred's head brought no confidence to Harry's plight.

"Galleons." Harry stated. "Five. Hundred." He looked at them pointedly, jangling the bag of gold. "Do you have the time?"

"You think he's okay?" Fred spoke to his brother.

"I think he might have gone a little bit crazy." George said.

Harry sighed, rubbing his head. Then he opened the bag of gold and poured something that looked like a few hundred coins out on the floor. Then he looked back up, giving the twins a tired expression, "The time?"

George choked, while Fred's eyes grew as wide as they could.

Harry started tapping his foot. "Should I go find some other team of pranksters that's hard-up for gold?"

"You serious?"

"Really?"

They breathed their words out of sync, staggering in shock at the money being offered to them. They each looked at their wrists, discovering that they had not put on their watches that morning. They began turning out their pants pockets frantically in a search for some kind of timepiece. Candies, lint, wands, chickens, rocks, a newspaper, and a small meal were produced from their four trouser pockets before they finally realized that the watch was hanging out of Fred's breast pocket.

Slowly lifting it to their eyes, George spoke the time, "Eight forty-five."

Mentally calculating the distance between the hospital wing and Professor Sprout's office, Harry swore to himself before spinning around and starting to run towards the steps.

"Potter?" Fred cried out in a strangled voice.

George coughed, clearing his throat of whatever might impede his ability to speak. "Mate! You didn't count it!"

Harry called over his shoulder, "We'll talk later, I gotta get down to Sprout's office!" Then he disappeared around a corner.

The twins simply stood there in shock. Slowly, Fred knelt next to the pile of Galleons and reached forward. He poked a coin speculatively, perhaps believing that Harry was having them on. Then he took out his wand and jabbed it towards the pile, trying to confirm the reality of the situation. The money stayed unresponsive. He reached over and tugged at his brother's pant-leg. "Hey George."

George mumbled something back, his eyes still glued to the corner that Harry had disappeared around. Fred tugged again, getting a response from his stunned twin, "Fred, what happened?"

"It's real."

George's eyes went wide, and his head snapped back to the money on the floor so fast that it was like a troll had clubbed him across the face. Then he sank to his knees next to his sibling. He tentatively lifted a coin, looking at the single piece of gold and then back at the pile of gold in front of them. He was speechless at the events of the last few minutes. He tried to say something once, but choked on the words in his shock.

The pair sat there for a few minutes, in awe of the events that had fallen upon them. They might have sat there all day were it not for the interruption of a rather loud noise.

**POP**

Neither the appearance of a house elf or the loud noise caused the two to make any movement other than a slight flickering of the eyes. In fact, the house elf was happily sweeping the floor right in front of them. It even sang a little ditty, which the two could never be bothered to remember.

_"Come alang, come alang, wi' your boatie and your song,  
My ain bonnie maidens, my twa bonnie maids!  
For the nicht, it is dark, and the redcoat is gane,  
And ye are dearly welcome to Skye again."_

It was at that point in the song that the old male elf completed the short jig he had taken in the midst of his performance and realized what situation he had danced himself into. It was quite an entertaining jig actually; the two Weasleys would eventually con the old elf, who went by the name of Blane, to teach them many things in life. Alas, this was not that day, and was rather the initial meeting between a triad of individuals whom had no idea that the other would be appearing at that point in time. Opening his eyes and discovering that he had an audience was quite the shock, and Blane cannot be entirely blamed for what he did after that.

He fainted. An excellent lesson in why one should never perform any type of teleportation with one's eyes closed, no matter how incredibly skilled the individual is.

The two Weasleys' were having an admittedly stressful day, but they were also at least one hundred years younger than the elf. This event shook them from the gold-induced stupor and allowed them to begin thinking straight again.

"D'ya think he's dead mate?" Fred nudged his brother.

George raised an eyebrow to his twin and poked the elf with his wand. The lack of response made him suspicious, and he almost confirmed the death of the elf. The elf proceeded to let out a quite powerful snore (at least it was powerful coming from an elf) and disprove any assumptions of his demise. Nonetheless, George proceeded with events as usual, "Yup, deader than a doornail."

Another snore raised itself from the comatose elf. Fred looked at his twin with no small amount of disgust at the sarcasm.

"Kicked the bucket. His hour has come."

Snore.

"Bit the dust." Snore. "Caught the snitch." Snore. George paused for a moment, curious if the elf was having them on and was awake this whole time. The elf breathed in slowly, and…

No loud noises were produced, and George raised an eyebrow at this strange creature that interrupted their day. Rolling his eyes he caught a glint of gold from the pile of galleons and went back into shock. Fred looked between the two fools and the galleons, "Well, what should I do now?" The elf released his breath in another reminder of its existence, a rather loud reminder. Fred shook his head, "That's no help. I've got an elf in a coma, an idiot for a brother, half the stuff from my pockets all swept up, and a pile of galleons to deal with."

Realizing that he had no bags to carry it in, Fred thought for a moment. Coming to the conclusion that his shirt would make as good a bag as anything else within arm's reach, Fred emptied his shirt pockets into his pants pockets and proceeded with the operation. He took off his shirt, leaving himself in just his stained undershirt, and proceeded to pile the galleons into the makeshift bag.

George came out of his shock after a minute or two, responding to his twin's loud grumbles, the now continuous snoring, the rapidly disappearing view of their timepiece-gotten gains, or some combination of the three. He looked at his twin going through the stuff on the floor and stuffing bits of it into pockets here and there, picking out the dustbunnies that had accumulated during the cleaning operation. He coughed, and Fred turned his head over, still stuffing things into pockets.

"Glad to see that her majesty is awake. Didn't have much to say for a bit there."

George sniffed – like some sort of superior royalty – at his twin's statement. Then he shuffled over to his twin and jammed the rest of the stuff into his pockets with no worry about the dust. "Let's just get this over with and thank the ickle ones for being lazy." He smiled at that, happy with the opportunity that had been given to them.

Fred shrugged, but flicked his eyes back to the elf, "What should we do about the elf? Take him in to Pomfrey you reckon?"

George scratched his head, "I guess so."

Fred rose to his feet quickly and sprinted off to the Gryffindor dorms. "One, Two, Three, Not It!" The sack of money jangled on his shoulder as he left his partner in crime at the scene of an elf-fainting.

George yelled after his brother, "Be careful with the loot! Don't get caught with it!" and then he frowned at the situation he was left in, wondering why his twin had left in such a hurry. Picking up the elf in his arms, George walked the couple steps to the hospital wing and pushed open the door with his back. As he turned around, the conversation from earlier this morning came to mind and the remaining neon sign above the door brought things into startling clarity.

"Bollocks," he spoke softly. The doorknob to the home of 'Hogwarts' Most Esteemed Mediwitch' turned with a slowness brought on by a sense of impending doom.

The door swung shut upon the errant Weasley twin. The other one cackled his merry way home.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

_~ Green Thumbs and Families ~_

"Oof!"

Harry crashed into the wall by Professor Sprout's office, stopping himself after the exhausting run through much of the castle. He muttered to himself, "The problem with moving staircases is that they never move when you _want_ them to move." Glancing around for some sort of timepiece, Harry swore as he found none on the wall in front of him, so he didn't know if he was early or late for the meeting. A cough from behind him had him spinning around, paranoid after his sprint.

He swallowed hard as he recognized the adults as Cedric's parents. He coughed, taking in a deep breath and trying to calm his racing heart and mind. He bowed before them already letting out a string of apologies, "I'm sorry about Cedric, it was my fault-"

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of the mess of words spewed from his mouth. Harry raised his eyes to see Amos Diggory with tears falling from his eyes. "It's alright son, nobody is blaming you."

Mrs. Diggory seemed a little bit less comforting, but nonetheless wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. Her face was red and marked from tears. She let out a wail and her husband removed his hand from the boy's shoulder to hold his wife. The Diggorys' looked lost, as though their whole world had fallen out from underneath them. There were no other children present, and Harry had never heard Cedric mention a sibling, so it was likely that their only child was dead. A cough from behind him brought attention to the Head of Hufflepuff House.

"Yes, if you will all come inside." Professor Sprout's face looked as broken up as the Diggorys, but her voice put up a strong front. She bustled behind her desk and brought out handkerchiefs for the seated parents of her charge. The shake of Amos's head left her with an extra kerchief, which she absently offered to Harry. "Now, I believe that Harry has something to say, and then we can go on with our conversation." She turned her eyes to Harry expectantly, as though she wanted something specific from him.

Harry found himself at a loss, he had only received this message fifteen minutes ago and now he was expected to give a speech. Professor Sprout took the opportunity to loudly blow her nose before turning back to the lost boy with a look of pride in her eyes. Harry quickly went through the last conversations he had with Professor Sprout, discovering that he had not actually spoken to her since before the final task. To stall for time, Harry simply began speaking, "Cedric was,"

At the absent mentioning of 'was' in relation to her son, Mrs. Diggory let out a fresh wail and interrupted any train of thought that Harry had begun. Looking around the room, Harry found that the images of badgers were useless to his cause, but the open view of the lake brought back his memories of the previous day.

His eyes widening, Harry looked over at Professor Sprout and leaned forward, "You mean the stuff I said yesterday, right?" he whispered, pleading with his eyes. Amos had taken a moment to whisper to his wife, and so they didn't take active notice of the words passing between the other two.

Pomona Sprout was not normally an emotional woman, but threats and dangers to her charges tended to bring out the most emotional parts of her. She sniffed loudly and nodded to the young boy.

Harry stuttered out, "Ced-… Cedric will always be the Hogwarts champion, and the true winner of the Triwizard Tournament. And he was my friend, that I will always remember."

Harry swallowed, the silent room adding to his nervousness. He smiled wryly, realizing that it had been easier to give this speech in front of the whole school than it was to give it to the _parents_ of his friend. "And so… So I will try to remember him the best way I can, by living my life to the fullest in honor of him."

Harry scratched his head, realizing that he was trying to make things sound better for the two people in front of him, but not really feeling guilty about it. "I wish that I could change things. If I could trade places with your son than I would,"

At this Mrs. Diggory gasped, looking into the serious eyes of the boy in front of her.

"But I can't," Harry whispered. "So I'm going to live, and play Quidditch, and Chess, and Exploding Snap…" Harry trailed off. He stayed silent for a moment, just looking at the Diggorys. They were all alone in the world now, and Harry was the only one who saw their son die. He looked down, knowing that he could give them one thing that no one else could, "Do you want me to tell you how he died?"

A pin could have dropped and it would have been heard from the heights in that room. Professor Sprout let out a gasp, and the Diggorys eyes would have popped out of their heads if they could.

"I owe him." Harry voice started to rise in strength. "It was thanks to him that I did so well in the tournament and we even teamed up to finish the maze." Harry looked back up at the Diggorys, knowing that he didn't have very much that they might want. "If you want to know… I'll tell you, for him."

The adults in the room looked like they didn't know what to say, and Harry didn't know what else he could tell them. "Live, Mr. and Mrs. Diggory," Harry's voice got quiet again, and he seemed almost shy at the end of it, "It's what he would have wanted."

Harry got up, and took the bag of galleons from his pocket. "This belongs to you." Their expression grew incredulous, confused at the connection. "We grabbed the trophy together, so half the winnings were his…" Seeing that they weren't making any move to take it, Harry simply dropped it on the floor and walked to the door. Grasping the doorknob, Harry started to open the door before he was stopped by a new voice behind him.

"Wait." The voice was gravelly from crying and tired from mourning. Harry turned to look behind him, and saw Mrs. Diggory struggling to her feet. "Child…Harry, come here," she spoke softly.

Harry let go of the knob and turned around slowly, walking to stand in front of the older woman. He saw many things in her eyes. Pain, fear, resentment, grief; her eyes could have held anything and Harry would never have known which it was. She raised her hand and caressed his face softly, finding some comfort in his touch. "Thank you…for being here and saying these things." She let out a shuddering breath, "It is hard, to live when someone else dies…" she trailed off as her eyes flickered to his scar.

She grasped him in a soft hug, the hug of an acquaintance who shared a powerful connection. Harry hugged her back, softly whispering to her, "I'm so sorry."

Releasing the boy, Mrs. Diggory knelt down a little bit so that she was at eye level with the boy. "Don't ever apologize for Cedric's death," she put a finger over his mouth in a hushing gesture, "No. Never apologize for his death again. I don't believe that any boy that my son was – " she choked in her speech, fresh tears filling her eyes. She paused for a moment, examining Harry's face. "My son wrote me about you, saying that you were a nice boy that never asked for any of this. So I know that he trusted you, and I trust you too."

She stood back up and put a hand on her husband's shoulder. At some point during their short talk, Amos had come to comfort her. She looked down at Harry, but it was her husband that spoke, from over her shoulder. "Kid, you said things that no one else would… even Dumbledore." Mr. Diggory shook his head at the actions of the old man and then continued, "We don't want or need the money, so you keep it."

Harry softly knelt down and picked it up. Husband and wife softly held each other, whispering things softly between them. Professor Sprout had a shocked but proud expression on her face as she nodded to the surviving champion. Her eyes twinkled as she let out a little cough before speaking, "If you don't mind, we could display the Triwizard Trophy down here."

The boy scratched his head, a little smile on his face. This wasn't anything like what he had expected. "Sure, I'll tell Professor McGonagall next time I see her."

Sneaking softly to the door, Harry didn't want to interrupt the tableau of peace left behind. Looking back from his position in the doorway, he smiled at them and spoke one last thing, "Owl me if you need anything." Mr. Diggory looked up and nodded, a melancholy upturn on his lips.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Shutting the door behind him, Harry wondered what he had really done today. It was sometime after nine and he had spent five hundred galleons (possibly more), been pranked by the school nurse, and had an extremely emotional conversation with the parents of his deceased classmate. He hadn't had breakfast yet, and his stomach was feeling quite empty for the moment.

Walking down the hall, he looked around in disappointment at the sparsely populated halls of Hogwarts. Had it always been this empty during the weekend before exams? This was typically a period spent confined to the hospital wing or studying with Hermione. Reaching the doors that led out to the greenhouses, Harry took the shortcut outside, deciding to check if any of the Durmstrang or Beauxbatons students wanted to have breakfast. It was another nice day, it might be possible to put together something interesting to do outside. The lake was empty this time of morning, and Harry spoke aloud, "I wonder if they have exams too…"

This left him alone and bored on a Sunday before exams. Hermione would yell at him if he tried to get them to stop studying, and Harry didn't feel up to that this early in the morning. Realizing that Breakfast might still be out there, Harry stalked back through the greenhouses before halting at the sounds of someone puttering inside one of them. Pressing his face up to the glass, Harry blocked out the sun with his hands and peered through.

Just Neville.

Harry stood back from the window, shrugging and making his way to the front of the greenhouse. Neville liked to eat too, and the quiet boy usually didn't have many questions for Harry – something that the rest of the student body would have in spades. Opening the door, Harry absently noted that this was one of the more dangerous greenhouses. Upon stepping inside, Harry did a double take when he realized that it was the greenhouse for the upper forms. The plants in there had a sort of aggressive aura to them, as though they could consume him at any moment.

A seventh year was there too, likely doing a late project and Harry froze in his tracks as the student calmly launched a dead rabbit into the air. The rabbit flew for about ten feet before it was grasped from the air violently by some sort of plant. Had Harry eaten breakfast _before_ entering the greenhouse, he would have lost his meal then and there as the bunny was torn in half by two green heads.

The concept of entering the greenhouse had never seemed quite so sinister.

Harry found himself growing lightheaded, and another seventh year approached him and peered down at the younger student. "Oi, what're you doing in here without some kinda mask or charm?"

"Gwuh?"

"Potter! You still with me, whatcha want?" the older student looked at the swaying younger student. Smirking, he poked Harry in the head before asking again, "You'd best get out of 'ere before you pass out from the fumes, it's molting season for the Purple Prancing Pities and the gas kills you in ten minutes."

Harry looked up in horror, "Who names a deadly plant a pity?"

The seventh year blinked, crinkling his brow in disgust, "Someone who's namin' it for their eleven-year old daughter, that's who. Now whatcha need? Or get out of the greenhouse."

"Oh yeh, I wanted to know if Neville wanted to eat breakfast." Harry's voice was meek at the irritated tone of his elder. The encroaching darkness at the edges of his vision was another part of it.

"'Kay, I'll tell him. Now get out before yeh pass out." The seventh year dismissed him absently, walking through the greenhouse to the corner where Neville was last spotted.

Harry rushed from the greenhouse, taking great gasps of clean fresh air from outside. Falling down on the ground, Harry simply watched the clouds pass for a moment, murmuring to himself about how troublesome plants can be. The deep breaths freed him from the blackness that had begun to bear down upon him, and Harry started to think clearly again. "What Neville doing in a place like that this time of morning?" He mused to himself.

The door opened and the smock-clad Longbottom emerged from the depths of greenhouse eight. Neville ran over to Harry and began shaking him, "Harry! You okay? I knew we should have put signs up on the door… This is all my fault."

Harry rolled his eyes, recognizing behavior so similar to his own. "I'm fine mate." Neville jumped in the air at the voice. "I just wanted to know if you were up for some breakfast."

"Oh, sorry for that Harry," Neville looked at the ground and went to scratch his neck in shame, before noticing his large gauntlets and began unstrapping them. "Sure, I mean, I haven't had anything yet 'cause Rebecca wanted to get up so early and I had to-"

Harry cut him off, afraid of where this train of thought would lead. "It's okay mate, I was just asking. If you're busy than I understand."

Neville had escaped from the confining gauntlets and had already begun stripping off his smock, so Harry waited a moment for the boy to emerge from the battle-worn smock that had more in common with the suits of armor than any of their usual herbology gear. Finally getting his head out, the round-faced boy continued his acquiescence. "No-no-no-no, Rebecca said I should have eaten beforehand anyway, so I'm supposed to come with you and get a good breakfast before I come back in…" He looked down at the watch that adorned his wrist, "Half an hour!"

Harry rubbed his face, wondering if Neville was always this hyper in Herbology and Harry had just rarely paid any attention. The boy was talking a mile-a-minute and showed no signs of stopping, so Harry simply scratched his head and got up off the ground. Looking at his somewhat disheveled roommate, Harry voiced his question, "Hey Neville, are you okay?"

"Oh, oh yes, Harry. I'm fine, it's just that Rebecca gave me some Pepper-Up Potion that she special made to get this project done and apparently I'm not supposed to have it on an empty stomach but I did, and so-"

Harry raised a hand and cut him off, or at least stopped paying attention to the words, Neville needed food. They had half an hour and going to the Great Hall with the normally timid boy hyped up on potions would be a like tolling the bell for his demise. He would never live it down, even if it was the last day before exams. "Get your stuff put away…" Harry trailed off as he realized that Neville had already gotten all of his protective gear off and put it away in the storage closet, "Or you did that. Follow me to the Kitchens! I don't think you're up to the Great Hall this morning and I'm not sure if they're still serving Breakfast."

"It's nine thirty-five Harry, don't they serve Breakfast until ten? We can go to the Great Hall, I'm doing just fine and I'll be normal Harry-"

Harry looked over at Neville, realizing that the boy would both definitely not be okay but might also have a panic attack in his present condition. Nobody was meant to be _that_ wired, it was a special level reserved only for young children and pets… and even then only in short, controlled doses that usually ended in headaches for all. Harry knew this because Piers had a younger sister who had once come to visit, and proceeded to be the most annoying pest he had ever met. She also broke one of Petunia's vases, which had culminated in a long series of very upset conversations with the neighbors about the whole situation. That level of insanity was also part of the continuing saga of Petunia vs. Dudley, the ' We're Not Getting You A Pet Other Than A Fish' Chronicles.

"Come on mate, I'll show you how to get into the kitchens."


	4. Reconcilation and Truth

(A/N: I don't own Harry Potter)

_~ The Lost Boys ~_

Harry was unprepared for Neville being this hyper. Between the greenhouse and the kitchens he had learnt that Rebecca Lynch was a seventh year Hufflepuff that had picked Neville to aid her on her final Herbology project; that Neville's gran had corns in her feet that bothered her but she absolutely refused to visit St. Mungo's to get them out, she only trusted the skills of some ridiculously named woman who refused to make a home visit; that Neville was completely blowing off studying for his potions exam because he knew that Snape would fail him anyways; that the boy was quite upset with Hermione Granger for snapping at him yesterday afternoon; and that nobody had any idea what had happened at the end of the tournament.

It was quite satisfying when Neville gasped at tickling the portrait, and even more satisfying to watch him stuff a roll into his mouth and begin eating at a pace that put Ron to shame. After all, silence is golden when one is deprived of it for a long period of time. The food also brought Harry the welcome opportunity to feel more awake and alive after the confusing morning. Beginning their gorging brought them into contact with the house elves, who were only too excited at having someone to feed.

"Mr. Harry Potter and Mr. Neville Longbottom! We's so happy to see you!"

Harry waved them off, "Yes, it's good to see you guys too."

"Do you needs any biscuits?"

"Eggses! You must have eggses!"

"Oh, I is so sorry for stepping on your feet!"

Rolling his eyes, Harry looked back to see Neville still standing near the door and buttering up a scone. Harry absently patted the head of an elf as he reassured the contrite creature, "It's alright. I'm fine. I think we're covered on the biscuit front. Some eggs would be lovely, could I have an omelet with hash browns and cheese? I know we had lovely potatoes last night." Nodding as the elves took off excitedly at his design, Harry wondered exactly how the elves got to their present lifestyle. Harry raised his voice to get Neville's attention, as the boy seemed quite content to consume the entirety of the bread and pastry stocks, "Neville, what do you want for breakfast?"

One large - and somewhat painful too, if Neville's cringe was any indication – swallow later, and the other boy responded, "I've never ordered breakfast here at Hogwarts, I'm quite happy with these scones mate."

Stalking back across the room, Harry repeated one of Petunia's favorite phrases, "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." Harry was a bit distressed by how strange Neville was behaving, and had begun to wonder if his roommate was a bit freaked out by the problems from the Triwizard Final. A simple scratch of the ear and Harry found his voice again, "Why don't we sit down, and you can figure out what you fancy for breakfast."

Neville nodded, taking a third scone and following Harry to the table down in the kitchens. The Hogwarts kitchens did not seem to be completely designed with their current cooks in mind, as there appeared to be a quite extensive cafeteria kitchen down here. Most of the countertops and furniture was made with humans in mind, and Harry wondered if this was some sort of oversight or if they were simply inconsiderate. Seeing some hard-boiled eggs, he made a quick grab for two of them, "I can take some, right?" Receiving consent was also authority to take one more, before taking a seat at the small table off to the side.

"Boiled egg?" Neville nodded and took one, already reaching for the butter knife and fixing up his scone with some marmalade.

Eggshells were kind of a pain to peel off, but Harry set to the task with no small amount of skill. Aunt Petunia could only supervise the kitchen for so much of the day, and it was a quick fix to boil an egg or two for an afternoon snack. Dudley could usually be trusted to stay silent, provided he was paid off with something or other. The malicious relationship of their childhood did little to curry friendship between the two, but Dudley's inherent dislike of cleaning his room had led to several occasions where the Dursley allowed himself to be bribed in exchange for Harry cleaning his room.

Neville seemed to be captivated by his scone, and Harry vaguely wondered if scones were such a rarity at Hogwarts that they could be a coveted item. "Do we get scones often?"

"Nope, only on Sunday breakfasts…" Neville slumped, a little bit disappointed, "Usually I'm not up in time to get any."

Harry shrugged, fairly indifferent to the kinds of pastry that were featured for the morning snack. "So what do you think of the Hogwarts kitchens?" He waved his arms around, letting out an expletive - "Bugger!" - as he accidentally dropped his second egg. Dusting it off, he turned his face back to the content Longbottom.

"Smashing, I never knew that we were allowed," Neville finished off his scone and looked around, "Can we get a cuppa down here? Or is that…" He trailed off as his question was answered by action, an elf whisking a pot of tea and two mugs in front of them. "Wow, they're amazing…" He made a distressed face before he went on, "Gran's told the elves at home that they're not to bring me snacks anymore, and I'm not allowed to go into the kitchens."

Harry shook his head in understanding, "Don't worry about it, back home my aunt barely ever lets me get snacks."

Neville's jaw dropped, "Really?"

"Yeah, I usually have to sneak it when they're out of the house or in another room," Harry rubbed his forehead, blushing red about his family. He brightened up then, "But Mrs. Weasley is nice about it, unless it's right before lunch or dinner."

Neville's expression went to a sad sort of smile, and Harry wondered if the boy was ever invited to friends' houses. "Do you ever visit anybody over the summer? Seamus and Dean always talk about it, and Parvati and Lavender are usually attached at the waist…"

Harry trailed off as Neville shook his head. Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry wondered how to get out of this awkward conversation. "Did you ask for anything yet? Or were you still thinking it over?" He queried, trying to restart the stalled conversation.

"No, but I'd love some bacon and eggs. Sausages too, if it's no trouble," Neville looked anywhere but at Harry, hoping that the elves heard him.

Leaning back, Harry caught the eye of an elf, "Do you have sausages?"

"Yes sirs, we do have sausages. Your omelet is almost ready and his will be done in a few minutes." The elf nodded excitedly, happy to be serving someone. "Will you need anything else from us?"

Harry looked back at Neville, who shook his head, "No thanks, I think that'll be everything. Thanks for everything." Pausing for a moment, Harry realized that they just had tea to drink, "Oh, wait! Could we get some orange juice?" Grinning at the assent, Harry thanked them and turned back to the table.

"So how'd you meet Rebecca?" Harry asked, looking for some way back into good standing with his roommate.

His head snapped back to Harry, and Neville let out protestations of innocence, "No, it's not like that. Please don't tell anyone about it, she'll have my hide if anybody finds out!"

Raising his hands, Harry tried to calm Neville down, "I didn't mean like that. I just meant to do the project. I was just curious."

"Oh," Neville sighed in relief. Taking a sip of his tea, Neville started cracking open his own egg and told the story, "We've known each other for years, my Gran is always visiting some friend or another." The Longbottom took a moment to eat half the egg, whilst Harry began cracking open his own egg. "Rebecca's grandmother takes care of her a lot, so I see her over the summers. I've always loved the greenhouse, so she taught me a lot about them since before I got into Hogwarts." Neville let out a breath and ate the rest of his egg, then continued, licking his fingers before he did so, "Nobody here really talks with the other years, so I haven't talked with her much during the school years. When she needed help on her final Herbology project she knew that I could help her out and asked Professor Sprout."

Harry nodded, that made a lot of sense. Neville always seemed like something of a natural when it came to Herbology, and it was one of the few classes that could be easily practiced out of school. "You learn much else before Hogwarts?"

Neville shook his head, "No… Since they weren't sure I was a wizard until so late, I wasn't allowed to do practice anything else really. Herbology can be pretty harmless." Harry's eyes widened at that idea, having seen the viciousness of the plants this morning. "So it was the only thing I really started, other than a little bit of Runes that I learnt in that last year."

Looking into Harry's eyes, Neville came out with an observation that surprised him, "You looked like you had some practice too, you've got steadier hands than any of the other third-years."

Embarrassed at the assessment, Harry knew that it was true, "My aunt's been having me do a lot of the gardening for years now."

Neville grinned, "See, it's not so bad. The girls are always complaining about the dirt and some of the guys spend Herbology staring out the windows, but it's a lot of fun."

Snorting, Harry chuckled as he realized that he and Neville had some things in common. He pointed it out, "I never thought that we had so much in common. Professor Moody said…" Harry went silent as he remembered exactly _who_ Professor Moody had turned out to be. Barty Crouch Jr. was a death eater responsible for torturing Neville's parents to insanity. The man had held a spider under the Cruciatus Curse at the beginning of the year, likely watching Neville's reaction. He had falsely befriended Neville to help Harry in the tournament, and later had almost succeeded in killing Harry.

He was also dead.

Curiously watching Harry, Neville jumped when the elf appeared with their breakfasts. "Here you go my good sirs, ready to serve if you needs anything else. Harry barely noticed the arrival of their food.

"Professor Moody has been strange these last few days," Neville softly spoke, bringing Harry out of his stupor. "And he cancelled his exam for some reason." Beginning to eat, the boy watched Harry for a minute before continuing, "People are saying that something happened the night of the Triwizard Tournament, but nobody knows what it was."

Harry croaked out, "Really?" and then he poured himself a tall glass of orange juice and drank a little bit, clearing his throat. "I thought that a secret in this castle meant that everybody knew about it," Harry smiled wryly as he remembered Dumbledore's cheery words during first year. Harry choked on his juice as he remembered the exact circumstances leading up to that visit. Killing your first defense professor was something that someone probably should not have shrugged off so easily. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, Harry stared at the table absently, looking through the food like glass.

Neville reached across the table hesitantly, and then retracted his arm of comfort, afraid of the consequences. "You okay Harry?"

The lost look that Harry gave him was a definite reminder that Harry was not okay. Nonetheless, Harry lifted up his fork and started to cut him omelet with it. "I'll be alright, Neville," smirking softly, "We've got breakfast, I've already accomplished things this morning, and I don't have any exams to study for."

Neville frowned, annoyed at the other boy's boasting. Had he been less timid, he might have stuck his tongue out at Harry, but he settled for crinkling his brow before falling to his food with a vengeance. The pair ate in silence, the sounds of industrious house-elves filling up the background noise. Soft humming came from farther back in the kitchen, likely where the dishwashing was taking place. Harry peered around, but could catch nothing but stacks and stacks of plates waiting to be returned to their places. Despite visiting the kitchens numerous times, Harry could never remember exploring them very much. It appeared that several tunnels went off into parts of the school, though Harry was at a loss as to where they went.

A year and a half of owning the Marauder's Map, and yet Harry had never really explored the whole castle, basically using the map to get _out_ of the school and to keep track of suspicious people. Fred and George would never let him live it down.

"Feel a bit better Harry?" Neville's voice brought the Potter from his musings.

Shaking his head, Harry murmured an apology, "Sorry, Neville. The last few days have been a bit rough."

The boy simply smiled, a little bit sad that Harry hadn't given up any secrets about the events of the past few days. He scrunched his face up in a thinking pose and then it was almost like a light went off in his head, "Whenever I have days like that, I work in the greenhouses."

A smile sparkled onto Harry's forlorn face, "Neville, aren't you always working in the greenhouse?"

Neville's face fell; he mumbled out, "We've got _Potions_ every week, so I have a lot of those days."

Harry chuckled, "Snape's an arse. Don't let it get to you so much." And Harry frowned, "I didn't think you cared about Potions too much, I thought you were skipping out on studying for the exam?"

Anguish crossed Neville's face, "That's just 'cause Snape's always breathing down my neck. I'd really like to learn it!" The boy twitched his lips into a grimace, "I'm rubbish at most everything, can't use a wand to save my life, and don't have any idea what's going on the rest of the time."

Harry's face twisted into a sympathetic smile, "It's alright mate, I'm rubbish at Potions too." Harry held up his hand and looked up thoughtfully, "Along with Divination and History." He then shrugged, "Most of the time I only do well in Charms because I spend a bunch of time practicing them, like for the First Task. And Hermione saves me on most all of McGonagall's essays."

Neville looked at Harry, happy tears falling from his eyes, "Thanks mate, good to know that I've got company other than Ron at the bottom of the barrel."

Smirking, Harry leaned over conspiratorially, "Mate, I think we've got a ways to go before we pass Ron at the bottom. It's not like most of the other kids study for anything." Nodding his head proudly, "You've got Herbology covered, and I've got Defense down pat. Flitwick is pretty nice about everything, and McGonagall's fair."

A laugh interrupted his speech, and Harry wrinkled his brow in confusion, "I think Trelawney and Hagrid will grade at about the same level." Neville's hoots of laughter stopped him from continuing.

"Oi, I resent that! Hagrid's my friend," Harry jokingly reprimanded his compatriot. "You're right though, wouldn't be surprised if everybody except Malfoy and Parkinson get easy O's in the class."

Neville had calmed down by then, and cocked an eyebrow at Harry's class problems, "I don't know how you don't do well in History. I know that it's easy to fall asleep, but it's all there in the book if you look for it."

Shuddering, Harry rejected the idea, "Nope, not happening." He grinned at his own joke, "I fall asleep reading the book too."

Rolling his eyes, Neville turned on an easy smile and finished their commiserations, "And even if we're both pants at Potions, so is the rest of Gryffindor!"

"Other than Hermione," Harry nudged in there.

"Too right, but she doesn't count."

Harry grinned, "Maybe we should just give up on Potions, skive off to someplace else."

The gasp from Neville's mouth showed how incredibly shocking the idea was to him. He leaned forward and whispered, "Don't they take points for that?"

"I don't know, but it's not like we wouldn't be losing the points anyways by being there."

Neville scowled, "It wouldn't look too good on our grades, and the O.W.L. would be murder."

Laughing, Harry just gave an evil smirk, "You've got all summer to think about it, I know I'm going to."

"Just don't tell Hermione about it," Neville snorted, making a cutting motion across his throat.

Harry shivered, "Don't I know it."

The pair took a moment to just laugh together. It felt good for both of them, since school was often stressful – especially during the days when they had Potions. Perhaps it was more confusing for Neville, who was equal parts timid little squirrel and complete dork. Four years of living and going to classes with people seemed like it should make them more than passing acquaintances. Yet it was not so. Dean and Seamus were buddies. Harry and Ron were inseparable on their good days. Hermione had a better friendship with Lavender and Parvati than Neville really had with any of his roommates.

At the same time Harry could wonder how he never knew much about Neville. It wasn't like there was much else to do in Hogwarts. Harry only took one extracurricular, and wasn't a very diligent student. So how had it happened that Harry could hardly count the number of conversations he had with his roommate on both hands? Harry voiced a name quietly, a question on his lips, "Neville?"

"What?" Neville's soft tone matched Harry's shameful turn of thought.

"Why haven't we ever really talked?"

Neville shrugged, no answer rising to his mind.

Harry's eyes wandered into the distance, contemplating the situation as a whole. "Actually, why doesn't anybody really talk?"

Neville scrunched his brow, unsure of the question.

"I mean, it's not like we've got anything else to do," Harry rose to his feet, carefully picking up his plate and glass. Neville followed Harry's example, and they both went back to the dish room, lost in conflicting thoughts. Harry set his plate and glass next to an almost military house elf, he absently watched the dishes dance around the room in a comfortable rhythm. Another plate and glass set themselves next to his, as Neville awkwardly stood next to him in the dish room.

"Sirs need anything?" The dish elf asked.

Shaking their heads, the two boys backed out of the dish room and walked through the kitchen. They thanked the kitchen staff, which was mercifully shorter than their introduction, and began strolling down the hall. Silence permeated their walk, washing over them like a great wave, only to leave them wondering aimlessly through the ground floor. A great sunbeam touched upon them through a window, and they stopped to look out at the beautiful Hogwarts grounds. A minute passed looking out upon the lake, before Neville fidgeted.

An eye flickered over to his companion, and Harry started speaking in a far-away voice, "I'm going to die, and I think that I've been wasting my life."

Neville was speechless, his jaw dropped in astonishment at the proclamation. It wasn't something that one heard every day. He started to stutter out denials, but was cut off.

"Four years I've been here, and I barely know my roommate," Harry barked a laugh, his face twisting into a sad variety of smile. "Much less anybody else in this place," Harry continued, his shoulders falling in misery. Turning his head to the side, Harry saw Neville continuing to gape like a caught fish, and he smiled at his new friend. "I won't make that mistake anymore mate, not with the time I have left."

Scratching the back of his head, Neville felt a little bit embarrassed at the confession of guilt. "We've been friends Harry," Neville murmured.

A shake of the head was the best response Harry could give. "Not like classroom friends mate. I mean friends that are always there."

Neville shrugged, "You've got Ron and Hermione though, right?"

Lines creased into Harry's face at his wide grin, "You're right there." Nostalgically, Harry mused to himself, "The stories that we could tell…" And then Harry frowned, "But it's like you said, about Hermione and skipping classes." Grinning at his compatriot, Harry smirked, "Or how you and the twins skipped out on studying this morning. I don't know if Hermione would be in for all that, no matter how much fun it would be."

A helpless smile crossed Neville's face, "You never know unless you ask." He shook his head and turned away, "Don't throw that away unless you're sure about it."

Harry looked at the ground, as if waiting for it to swallow him up. "You're right." He dropped to sit underneath the window, in the little bit of darkness cast by the high morning sun. He looked back up at Neville, seeing the other boy angled away from him. Friendship is never something easy to push away, even if you know it's the right thing to do. Neville proved again why he was in Gryffindor.

And Harry understood why he deserved to know.

"Hey Neville, what did you think of this year?"

Neville spun back around slowly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. He sniffled for a second before responding, "I don't know, it wasn't too bad for me." He looked at Harry nervously, squinting through the sunlight, "I think yours went pretty bad though."

Surprised at his friend's honesty, Harry stayed silent for a moment. When he spoke, it started out strong and faded to a dry, raspy tone. "How about," Harry swallowed, clearing his throat, "Professor Moody?"

"He was a bit off," Neville shrugged, raising eyebrows in confusion, "But he was better with curses than Professor Lupin." Neville went quiet at the end, haunted eyes remembering the curses cast at the beginning of the year.

Harry spoke quietly, "If I told you that Moody was a fake, would you believe me?"

"Only somebody crazy would impersonate Mad-Eye Moody…" Neville trailed off at Harry's downcast face, and he nodded after a second.

"At the end of the summer, somebody broke into Moody's house and locked the real one into his own trunk. Then the fake spent the whole year drinking Polyjuice Potion and buggering with the tournament." Harry swallowed, almost done with his summary. "He did it to get Voldemort resurrected, and after I got back that night, he took me to his office and tried to kill me. Dumbledore showed up and stopped him. Snape brought up some Veritaserum and they had him confess everything."

Neville looked at Harry in horror and confusion. Remembering the school year and the spiders made more sense, but Neville still didn't know why Harry was telling him about it.

"Why are you telling _me_ about all this?"

Harry went silent, knowing that wondering would be worse than understanding. "The Death Eater who did it all, he was one of the ones that…" Harry lost his ability to speak, his throat closing up.

Kneeling in front of him, Neville finished the identification quietly, "Crucio'd my parents."

His hands shaking, Neville waited for a moment, somewhat unfamiliar with the feelings coursing through his veins. He had never quite understood the strong emotions that many Gryffindors portrayed so well. Most of his effort was put into avoiding conflicts and confrontations, rather than inciting or participating within them. He put up with people from every house mocking him, his grades, his potions performance, and the disgrace that he brought upon purebloods everywhere. No one had ever made any jest against his parents, at least not directly. There were lines that people didn't cross, and even if they were assured that Longbottom was a comedy with a wand, a satire with a broomstick, and a tragedy whilst using a cauldron; it didn't change the fact that some things would be punished severely.

It was with no small confusion that Neville found himself gripping Harry's collar and slamming the other boy into the wall. "Who? Who was it? How?" He screamed, his voice echoing down the hallways.

Tears streamed down Neville's face as he yelled incoherent things at Harry, enraged at the idea of one of his parents torturers running free within the school. Harry's voice came as a wash of noise to his ears, ears that heard nothing in his haste to pick out a name from the ramblings of his roommate. He screamed out the names of the Death Eaters in a circular rant, never caring for who would hear them.

Harry was afraid. It was a familiar feeling, as Harry was afraid of a lot of things. He had never expected to be afraid of Neville Longbottom. This was darkness inside Neville, bottled up for years and years, and Harry had been the poor fool to let it out. When Neville fell away from him, stumbling to the ground in exhausted grief, Harry found himself falling to the floor in ashamed silence. Anger, rage, anguish, misery, suffering…Neville had something within himself that was showing through, and Harry had never expected to see anything like this. In shock, Harry sat and simply watched in silence, unsure of how to deal with this. There was no comforting that Harry could understand. Comforting the Diggorys and Cho had been different; it had been about a mutual feeling of discontent and helplessness at the death of a companion. This was something that Harry was at a loss to deal with.

"Potter! Longbottom!" Snape's voice came from nearby them in irritation and rage.

Harry sprung to attention, and he swiftly tugged Neville up to his feet beside him. The other boy was still fairly listless with grief, so Harry made it his goal to keep Snape focused on him. Fear rippled through his bones as he tried to think of any excuse for their current appearances.

Nothing came to mind.

"Is there a problem here?" The professor's voice was more worn than it usually was, sounding tired and sick instead of its usual condescending sound.

Harry and Neville shook their heads, though Neville was noticeably slower beside him. Snape's dark eyes bored into them, shifting between them as though waiting for an explanation. "Nothing sir, just talking about the school year," Harry took the cue, providing what was technically a correct assessment of their conversation; though their disheveled appearance pointed to some sort of mischief.

Snape raised an eyebrow slowly, "And this – talking, as you call it – resulted in the name _'Bellatrix Lestrange'_ being screamed down the hallway?"

Eyes shifted to Neville, and Harry discovered that the other boy was carefully examining the floor, likely still distracted by the revelations of the past few minutes. Harry swallowed hard and nodded to Snape.

Watching the two boys for a moment, Snape paused and seemed thoughtful. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for creating a disturbance," He swiftly returned to form, taking the opportunity to work on the house points. The seemly aged man stalked past them, on his way somewhere else in the castle, likely to impose his wrath upon other students.

They stood there, breathing softly as the tense atmosphere around them seemed to diffuse and warp after Snape's interruption. A great weight had been lifted off their shoulders with Snape's assault, and they were feeling the tension return now that he had left. Neville leaned up against the wall of the corridor and slid to the ground slowly. Harry just looked down the hall, watching the Potions Master's cloak flutter along the hallway. As it turned a corner, he looked back to his teary-eyed compatriot and wondered if he had made a mistake.

"Crouch," Harry spoke after taking a deep breath. "It was Mr. Crouch's son."

Neville shook a little bit, his body rocking in some emotional turmoil. He covered his face with his hands and mumbled to himself softly, "No. No. No. No."

Harry opened his mouth for a second, trying to come up with words for the events. He closed his mouth again, thinking over what he had told Neville, and he realized that he had never mentioned what happened to the Death Eater, "Dementors kissed him the other night, so he's dead." Harry shook his head firmly, "I don't know if that makes it any better, after everything that's happened…" Harry trailed off as Neville began speaking.

"Barty Crouch Jr. died years ago, in Azkaban. How could he be here?" The voice was muffled a bit, as though it came through clenched teeth.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, "That's not quite true. His mum was dying, so she convinced Mr. Crouch to switch them during one of the visits. She drank Polyjuice Potion until she died in prison, and her son lived at home under an invisibility cloak."

Neville looked like a lost puppy as he looked up at Harry with an incredulous expression. The disbelief in his eyes was evident, and there was a little part of Harry that wished the story was a lie. That way Neville wouldn't look at him with that desperate look. One of his parents' torturers had been alive and well, not being punished for the crime of using the Unforgivable Curse of Pain to drive another human being to insanity. Neville knew about the curse, and he had made an effort to study it. If he ever wanted to understand his parents' illness it was required to know what caused the injuries in the first place. The mental scarring from that act of violence upon their being was so great that they would never be more than murmuring patients in a mental ward.

Harry looked away from Neville's eyes, trying to construct some kind of resolution. "He's dead now though. Mr. Crouch Sr. too. He killed his father the night that Mr. Crouch showed up here in the forest."

Neville just sat there, his face slack and exhausted with the effort expended this morning. He looked at the floor, since there was really nothing that Harry could offer him to help with this. One of his parents' torturers had died the other night, but it was one that was already supposed to be dead. "I…I don't…I don't know what to think," he softly whispered, just loud enough for Harry to hear. Running a hand through his hair, he continued, "I had always thought that he was dead, and to know this is just…"

The two boys waited in the silence following their pronouncements for a minute, awkwardly waiting for some sort of resolution to interrupt them. They didn't know where to go from here, but there was some sort of understanding between them.

"Harry," Neville spoke up finally, catching the other boy's attention. "Could I just be alone for a bit?"

Nodding his head, Harry shifted on his feet nervously, "Of course. I didn't know…" he trailed off for a second, "Well I didn't know anything. But I thought that I should tell you about him."

Neville brought his head up and down, not really passing a judgment on Harry's choice. Harry went on, "I'll just visit McGonagall or something." After a bloody mess of a morning for both of them, Harry picked the destination of his head of house fairly randomly. "If you want to talk, just leave me a note or something on my bed." Neville didn't really move, but Harry got the feeling that he understood. "See you later."

As Harry walked down the hall, he heard a cracking voice speak up with one word.

"Thanks."


End file.
